A History of Fire
by lunarism
Summary: Several months after the Promised Day, Roy and Riza are captured by a mysterious organisation with malicious intentions, and all of Amestris becomes involved in a plot much greater than anyone foresaw. Again. Fighting for each other and the for the greater good, the king and queen discover just how dangerous being in love can be. M for sexytimes, language, and violence.
1. mutilation

**A/N: **I own nothing. Special thanks to sunshineowl for the amazing and speedy beta. This is the first installment of a multichapter Royai fic that I will update as quickly as I can. I would love and appreciate reviews if you are so inclined!

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**Chapter 1: Mutilation**

_mutilation (n): imperfection brought about by irreparably damaging parts of a whole._

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He couldn't see, but there were many things he knew. Roy knew that his lieutenant lay in the hospital bed next to him, barely alive with fluids making their lethargic way into her veins – he knew that needles punctured her ivory skin, marring her flesh with evidence of his failure to protect her. The first time her flesh was marred, it was by her father, with needles (again) and ink, splashing his deadly precious research across her back.

_After the funeral, Riza and Roy returned to the deserted house, decrepit as it always was. He'd come to see her father, and he'd died, spewing phlegm and blood across the floor with his dying breath. Riza was only quiet as she cleaned it up. She shed no tears over his death, and Roy knew because he studied her. Like a book, like a story written on pages of fire. Her eyes were never red, the sound of muffled sobs never crept between the cracks of her walls. Roy knew because he listened, too. The remaining cash Riza discovered in the top drawer of his dresser and what little money Roy had brought with him barely covered the cost of a funeral, but if they forwent flowers it was enough. Just the two of them, standing at the grave. It had always been just the two of them. Roy knew it._

_He'd arrived at the Hawkeye household aged fifteen, desperately begged to be taken on as apprentice, and voraciously devoured every alchemy book in sight. He looked with fear and affection at the young girl whose father was a madman. He never pitied her. She was stronger than he was, passionate and brave, stoic and sweet. Perhaps the result of a father who didn't know how to love, a mother buried deep under the grass, and childhood spent in near solitude. Roy knew, when he looked at her, that this was true. One day, as he helped her carry groceries home from the market, she told him all this. He was content just to listen to her voice because it was liquid gold._

_The first thing he'd noticed about her was her earrings, tiny silver studs that rested there like an indomitable part of her. She told him about those, too, on the way home from the market. They were her mother's. Her mother was a lovely woman. It was sad when she had died. And that was all._

_She'd only talked to him like this on three occasions. This was the first._

_The second was when she'd asked him, "Can I trust you?" and he'd said yes. Just the two of them, standing at the grave. Never shed a tear. But "Can I trust you? Can I trust you with my father's research?". Roy knew that she forsaw the answer. She asked as a formality, perhaps, a nod to her father who would soon be decaying under the surface of this grey day. And he, of course, promised her she could. He would promise her anything he could give, he would promise her the world, though she'd never accept a proposal so vast. Because he'd known, it was always just the two of them, and it always would be. Because he might be in love with her. Slowly slowly sinking between his ribs was that _because, _that _might. _It had happened softly. At twelve she was a scrawny girl, but by fourteen she was a glowing remnant of her mother, like that picture on the mantelpiece. Real, tangible, a comfort and a force to fear: she was always kind, but Roy caught flashes in her deep brown eyes of ferocious power that he hoped would never turn on him. He knew, though not when or how or why, that they would._

_When he told her that she could trust him, they walked back to the decrepit house, and she turned away from him, unbuttoning her blouse and letting it fall to the floor. After a moment of confusion, he realised that her back was disfigured by an alchemic array, tattooed forever into her skin._

"_My god, Riza, what is that?"_

"_It's my father's research." She had her arms crossed protectively over her chest, preserving what dignity she supposed she had left. But Roy didn't believe that this made her any less than who she was before. She'd agreed to bear her father's dangerous research on her own body. That was brave. That was heartbreaking. She'd loved him, Roy knew, even if her father never could manage to bring himself to tell her that he loved her in return. That was not equivalent exchange. He doubted Riza cared. "I'm…I'm sorry, Riza."_

"_Don't be, Roy. I agreed to this, a long time ago. I didn't really know what it meant, but I agreed, and that's my burden now."_

"_Don't you have enough burdens?" he murmured, saddened by her resolve but also in admiration of it._

_Later, with a notebook and pen in hand, he drew the array on paper, promising to destroy it as soon as he learned it by heart. With one hand, he traced the lines of the tattoo, and with the other, jotted them down. He noticed how she shivered when his hand brushed her skin. He didn't think about what that might mean. He couldn't afford to do that, now, as much as he yearned to. He was training to be a state alchemist now, about to take the test required to earn his rank as a dog of the military. It was the only way to return Amestris to the way it should be, he told Riza while he worked._

_She was the only one who knew of his plans to become Fuhrer and fix this mockery of a nation. He'd spoken of it when they were younger, teenagers occupying a house that might as well be empty. He plastered the bare walls with his ambitions._

_He was nearly twenty, now, and with this new knowledge of flame alchemy would pass the test and be sent to the front lines in Ishval. That, he didn't tell her. Maybe, he thought, she already knew._

The second time her skin was marred, it was directly, unavoidably, completely his fault.

"_Please, burn this off. Deface my back."_

"_How could I ever do such a thing!"_

_And as she explained, he clenched his fists to steady his wrenching heart._

"_I want you to set me free from my father's burden."_

_That was what he had hoped to hear for so long, but never really comprehended how it would be done. Was this the only way? Roy knew that it was. And so he agreed._

_He'd struggled to protect her from pain as a young girl, he'd shielded her from her father's drunken blows and vile words. But that day she arrived in Ishval, eyes burning as she pulled down her hood to greet him, he knew his struggle was lost; it nearly broke him. She was all he had, really. In his mind, she was his anchor to truth, and to calm, and to steady reality. But that day she arrived in Ishval, a prodigy sniper with the eyes of a hawk, she joined him in the flames._

_Now it was her job to protect him. She watched and listened like an animal would, aimed without fear. All the while, he knew that tattoo was weighing her down, leaden on her back the secrets of true destruction. And when she asked him to hurt her, in order to save her, how could he refuse? How could he possibly refuse anything to Riza? Or Private Hawkeye, as it were._

_That night, the sky was more peaceful than his soul would ever be again. He turned, and Riza (as she always would be in his mind) had her back to him, bare and ruined. In the barracks of Southern Command, he'd locked the door and closed the blinds. Seeing blasts of flame would do no one any good._

"_Are you ready?"_

_Hesitation. Then, "Yes."_

_His hands were shaking. She was too precious to burn._

_But he promised. He'd already broken one promise to her, to use her father's research well. He'd helped destroy an entire race, and she'd trusted him! He was disgusted with himself. But no, every promise from this day forward would go unbroken. Even if it mean hurting the girl, no, woman, he thought he might love._

_His hand were shaking. He would burn her._

"_Alright."_

_Then came the blast, a mighty roar of flame that targeted the worst of the secrets scattered on her skin. He could see her through the heat, clenching her teeth and finally releasing the screams she held in. Agony was the only word Roy could imagine to describe this moment. Agony until it was finished, and her raw skin was bubbled and singed. She held her shirt against her chest, unable to put it back on. Roy paced slowly towards, guilt and concern marking his brow._

"_Are you okay"_

"_Yes. Thank you…just, thank you."_

"_I'm so sorry."_

_Silence._

"_You need to see a doctor."_

"_I do not!" she said indignantly, but he protested._

"_I have just given you third degree burns all over your back. You really don't think you need a doctor?"_

"_No. Definitely not. It would lead to questions that I am not prepared to answer."_

"_Fine. At least let me put some antiseptic and bandages on it. Please?"_

_He hoped, when he said please, she didn't recognise all the agony in the plaintive request. He wanted to fix her as best as he could, after destroying her body and corrupting her soul._

_She told him that she joined the military to help him, as best as she could, to reach his goals of becoming Fuhrer. It was the worst news he'd ever received. He didn't want this. He knew, though, that it was always just the two of them. It always would be._

The third time Riza's skin was broken was by that awful puppet of the gold-toothed doctor. The third time was when Roy couldn't take it anymore. No one should hurt his lieutenant like that. He would never let it happen again. And now, she was nearly dead in the bed next to him, and he couldn't even see her face.

_When she was held down, he panicked. But when the sword cut through the skin of her throat and severed the veins that held up her life on tender fingers, that's when he lost control. All he could do was yell her name and utter a silent prayer to a god he didn't believe in, a prayer to save her like he couldn't. He didn't know, this time. He didn't know anything except that _might _he'd kept secret for half his life had become a _certainty. _And now he was watching the woman he loved bleed rivers and oceans, soaking alchemic arrays with her blood, soaking the stone with her ebbing life. Seeing her broken and weak was the worst of it, his lieutenant, his Riza who was the strongest of them all._

_But if he did the unthinkable, would she really be alright?_

_Today was the day that the fire in her eyes turned on him. Their secret language of glares and shaken heads spoke of the wrongness of this deed, and it was decided. He would not perform human transmutation. Because her eyes, burning into him, said no. Begged no. And he would give her anything._

_He would not let her die. That was the promise that he made, with those glares, those shaken heads. And he would never break a promise to her again._

_So when the chimeras attacked and he escaped the grip of the armed slaves, he ran full tilt to her side and collected her in his arms, obliterating anyone in his way._

"_Lieutenant! Lieutenant!" he screamed, hoping for her eyes to open, for her to wake up. Because there was no world without her. It was the two of them. Without her he wasn't…he wasn't Roy Mustang._

_That had been the worst moment of his life, with his arms around her and her eyes closed so gracefully._

"_Don't you dare die! Stay with me, Lieutenant!"_

_He really thought she would, and never was anything, in his entire life, more awful than this. Until –_

"_She comes first!" and that little girl drawing an alkahestric circle in Riza's own blood, sealing the wound, bringing her back from the brink._

_And then his lieutenant opened her eyes, and Roy held her closer than he ever had before. Overwhelmed. Overjoyed. Very, very worried about getting her to a hospital with Central in a mess like this._

Now they were safe. Now they were beyond the Promised Day. Now, he regretted asking her to fight, because it took a toll on her that he hadn't forseen, and her life was on the line.

He was nothing but a blind idiot. Perhaps that was why he needed her, the girl, the light, who could see when he was in all but darkness.


	2. shadow

**Chapter 2: Shadow**

_shadow (n): comparative darkness._

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Riza felt the slice cut deep in her neck, bandaged by sleep and linens. She awoke, disoriented, into the sun of the morning slanting across her bed. She noticed, of course, the tubes that had found their place in her skin, but she also noticed something completely unexpected. There was a warm hand, large and strong, holding her smaller one in its grip. Gingerly turning, she saw the Colonel in the next bed with wrapped-up eyes, lying on his back with one arm dangling off the edge of the bed. She wondered how long it had taken him to find her hand, hanging listlessly in the empty space that light did not define for him anymore. She felt her cheeks flush, and curled back into morphine sleep with a small smile.

At breakfast time, over burgundy trays, Riza and the colonel sat in silence, watched over by a nurse. Riza attempted to swallow a bit of the stiff oatmeal they'd been served, but once it reached her throat she gagged as the bite scraped along the inside edge of her wound. Coughing and sputtering, the colonel was halfway out of bed before the nurse reached her.

"Are you alright, Lietuenant?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine."

"Not quite ready for food yet, then, dearie?" The doddering old nurse inquired. Riza shook her head, still choking a little. "After all, you did just wake up this morning. After three days! Can't expect too much from yourself after an injury like that."

"Don't treat me like an invalid!"

The colonel chuckled, "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but that's exactly what you are, at least for now."

"That's rich, coming from someone who can't even see." His face fell.

Why was she doing this? She was…so angry that she couldn't protect the colonel, so angry that she hadn't been able to fight like she should have. But that didn't give her a right to treat her best friend, her superior, like that.

"I'm sorry, Colonel, that was cruel."

"It's okay, Lieutenant. I'm coming to terms with this. It's not as bad as you might think."

Riza could always tell when he was lying. Half her life had been spent with him; he couldn't hide a thing from her. She hoped, though, that she was better at it than he was. Because her whole life she'd loved him, and that wasn't something she'd willingly divulge. In the darkened studies of her family house, at the foot of her father's grave, atop the crumbling towers of Ishval, wandering the intricate labyrinth of Central Command – these were the places that hid the secrets of her heart, these were the ruins of her loneliness, only remedied in the service of Colonel Roy Mustang.

The nurse interrupted Riza's reverie, saying, "You know, we have plenty of empty rooms. Why are you two sharing?"

Riza, too, was curious, having woken with the Colonel's hand in hers. Pretending she didn't know what she thought it meant, pretending that he wasn't holding it tightly because of what that could mean, of what it could begin against the rules and their common sense.

"Because I am responsible for the wellbeing and health of my subordinates and I can't make sure they're alright if they're a hundred rooms away?"

"And how am I supposed to watch his back if I don't know where he is at all times?" Riza added.

"Well, neither of you are in a fit state to do any of that. It's a good thing you have your team, Colonel Mustang. They've already apprehended three assassins."

The colonel sputtered and Riza winced. "THREE! HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE. IT'S ONLY BEEN A FEW DAYS!"

"I should be out there helping them," Riza murmured softly to herself. But perhaps his loss of eyesight enhanced his sense of hearing, and the colonel turned to her. His face wore the mask of a hard stare, but in his unseeing eyes there was a tenderness she didn't fully realise was reserved solely for her. Though she knew he couldn't see it, she gave him a sad smile.

It was a tragedy, what they had done to him. Stealing away the beauty of the world from a man who needed to see it so badly, know that it was there so fire wouldn't consume his soul.

The nurse took the trays and left, leaving the colonel and the lieutenant alone.

"Colonel?"

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Why are we in the same room? The nurse was right. Neither of us are in fit state to protect the other. We might as well have our own rooms."

"I…I nearly lost you on the Promised Day. Then I nearly lost you again, when you fought and shouldn't have. I'm not risking losing you again. I'm making sure you stay right here until you've recovered." he said vehemently, his voice low.

"I see, sir. I – thank you."

Whatever it was that she felt for the colonel, it certainly violated the anti-fraternisation laws. She would always live with the fear of losing him, a greater monster than any that loomed over her until then, or since. Even when they weren't at war…oh, who was she kidding, they were always at war. And she was at war, heart and soul against the man she followed into hell.

Fuery opened the door, and the rest of Team Mustang piled in after him.

"How's our king and queen?" Breda teased. Riza let out a small chuckle, which turned into a rather painful cough that drew the eyes of everyone in the room.

Fuery asked, "All right, Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

She nodded slowly as the coughs died down.

"They really did a number on your neck, huh?"

"Yes. If it wasn't for Mei Chang, I don't-"

"_So_, what's this I hear about assassination attempts?" The Colonel queried, abruptly changing the subject. Riza suspected he didn't want to even be reminded of that night. Honestly, neither did she. Its memory prowled like a monster in the corners of her mind, and the corners of her eyes saw shadows where there were none.

"Well, two with guns and one with a sword. None of them very well prepared, if you ask me. We dealt with them easily enough," Falman informed him, self-satisfaction colouring his short report.

"We've also got Lieutenants Brosh and Ross helping out with sentry duty. There's no way anything is going to happen to you."

"I guess a lot of people are pretty mad at you because they think this whole thing was your fault!" Fuery piped in.

The colonel shook his head in dismay. Falman said sternly, "One was an Ishvalan looking for revenge. He though it would be easy to target both of you, considering you're sharing a room."

Breda snickered and shared a knowing glance with Fuery. Riza shot both of them a glare on behalf of Colonel Mustang. She knew that kind of glare could quiet them in an instant, she'd had enough practice with it. But despite their (awful) antics, her affection for them prevailed. She softened, and gave them a small smile.

"Thanks for looking out for us."

"No problem, Lieutenant Hawkeye. That's what we're here for," Breda told her. "We really hope you get better soon."

The rest of the team nodded their agreement. No one mentioned the Colonel's condition, though. There was no recovering from that, and this collective realisation cast a sombre film over the cheery room. The subordinates returned to their posts, and Riza looked sadly at the Colonel, silent and melancholy. He stared out the window, perhaps pretending he could see. But she knew for him it was only darkness, for him it was always rain.

That night Riza woke up screaming, tangled in the tubes that kept her bound to life.

"Lieutenant! Are you all right?" the colonel asked, the concern in his voice rising like the tide.

"Yes, sir. Just a nightmare," Riza responded, lying flat on her back with her eyes glued to the ceiling. She hoped the blank tiles would armour her mind, block the demons of blood and broken alchemy from surfacing. She didn't tell the colonel that the nightmare was for him. She didn't tell him that in her dream, he was the bait and she was the blinded. She didn't tell him that she couldn't save him. She didn't tell him that now she understood how he felt when he was screaming her name, how he feels, now he can't watch her back.

"I get them too, Lieutenant. The last three nights have…not been good."

"I got them after Ishval. They never really went away. They just changed."

She had no idea why she was telling the colonel this. It was none of his business. It was none of his business that the nightmares became about losing him. But it was the middle of the night, and words kept the darkness from wrapping its shadow-fingers around her throat again.

"Everything changes. Everything is going to be different now."

They fell silent. It was a comfortable kind of silence, protective and buoyant, content in its solidarity. She wondered when it was that he fell asleep, holding her steady with his presence in the next bed over. She wondered, until dreams reeled her back into their mad dance.


	3. refraction

**A/N: **Thank you to Alex for helping me keep the characters in character and the plot full of eMOTIONS~ and basically saving this chapter's life and mine. Also thank you to Olivia and Vanessa for listening to my dramatic rendition via tinychat. Of course, Kas, you win the award for slowest beta ever. justkiddingiloveyouthatwasaj oke. And finally, thank you all for 500 views on this story!

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**Chapter 3: Refraction**

_refraction (n): the ability of the eye to transform light and form an image on the retina._

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The idea of reconciliation with Ishval had taken root in his mind, growing when the last snap of flames devoured the walls of that forsaken city. Maybe it was seeing Lieutenant Hawkeye bury a lonely child, maybe it was the stoic optimism of Maes Hughes, maybe it was his own guilt over the blood on his flaming hands, but Ishval was a piece of the jagged jigsaw that Amestris had become and he was determined to piece it back together. His first ally in this quiet battle had been Hughes. At the funeral, he'd made an iron resolution to his friend, and with the lieutenant to tether him to the ground he'd soar as high as he could through the ranks until the title of Fuhrer belonged to him. And as it began with Ishval, so would it end.

_He and Maes had supported each other through training exercises, shuffled through the graduation line, sat next to each other on the heavy train ride to Ishval._

"_Hey, Roy, no need to look so down! We'll be out of here soon, and then I'll be able to go home – to Gracia!"_

_Would he ever shut up about his girlfriend? Roy had to admit she was a lovely woman, but Hughes went on so much that he was beginning to hate her. Hughes continued, "And you've got _plenty _of ladies waiting for you, huh, Roy?"_

_He'd collected women around him during his days in Central. He didn't kiss them. He used them, shielding himself from haunting memories of golden hair and huge, lonely eyes. Because he'd left after stealing her secrets, and she'd never come to find him._

"_You sure have a got a thing for brunettes," Hughes continued. Roy snorted with supressed laughter._

"_Yeah, I sure do."_

_Weeks fell into the void of wartime, time passing quickly and not at all. Roy saw the innocent eyes of friends and rivals tainted by blood._

"_Major Mustang, they have a new mission for you at Command!" a young cadet informed him as he sat outside his tent, three months into his deployment. He was tired and ragged around the edges, barely holding himself together. The cadet stood in a salute, clearly afraid of the Flame Alchemist who had become the weapon superior officers chose to hide behind in battle._

"_Dismissed, cadet," Roy said, standing up slowly and making his way to the command tent, half a mile away in the tangled nest of the encampment. He wondered what hellish homicidal orders were in store for him next. A stealth attack ending in brutal murder, a huge blast that would kill hundreds of civilians, destruction of some church or cathedral that held the devoted within their walls . . . It would end in blackened bodies, smoking in disintegrated glory. He was vile, a dog of the military ripping innocents up with his teeth. And the secrets to his annihilation lay on the back of the most innocent of all, a fierce and pale girl he'd betrayed with a snap of his fingers._

_Arriving at the tent, he saluted General Murdock. "Ah yes. Major Mustang, we have a new assignment for you. Lieutenant Hughes will accompany you. You are to exterminate the population surrounding the Eastern Tower and block off all possible entrances to the area. The tower will become a sniper outpost. Kill whoever gets in your way. Understood?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_I want you to leave immediately. Find Lieutenant Hughes and brief him on the mission, then follow through. Dismissed."_

_With a final salute, Roy walked briskly to the centre of camp, knowing he would find Hughes there. His camaraderie with the other men was something Roy envied, but did not desire. War was not a time for friendship; after what he'd done, he didn't believe he deserved it._

"_Hughes! I have a mission briefing for you," Roy called._

"_Can it wait? I was just telling the Sergeant here about Gracia's cooking. Major Mustang can tell you, we had him over for dinner once, and she made apple pie. Wasn't it delicious, Roy?"_

_Roy sighed, walked into the crowd of soldiers, and grabbed Hughes by the sleeve of his uniform coat._

"_We have a mission General Murdock wants us to complete. Now."_

_After briefing, after trekking through the gravelly sand, after being smothered in the heat of grey cloaks, they reached the Eastern Tower. It marked a corner of the city, and was a keystone to its survival. The tower had views in all directions. If the city was a chessboard – an analogy Roy couldn't seem to shake from his mind - then the tower would be a rook, charged with guarding the precious things within. The precious things they had come to destroy. The lives of children and housewives, scholars and artisans. Fire didn't discriminate. It decimated._

_The two men noiselessly entered the city, polished boots clattering on the cobblestones, brass buttons gleaming. Inconspicuous as two soldiers in Amestrian uniform could be, they moved through the empty streets of the city to the still-inhabited Eastern District. In a barren alleyway bleached by the sun, an old woman hobbled into view. She approached Roy and Hughes, menacing but obviously weak._

"_What do you men think you're doing in my city! You soldiers, you kill without thinking! This is genocide!" she screamed at them in a cracked voice._

"_Please, get out of here." Hughes begged of the woman. "I don't want to shoot you."_

_The woman remained. Hughes drew his gun, and pointed it with shaking hands._

_Throughout the exchange, Roy's face had remained impassive. Blank eyes hid war inside. Hughes was disobeying orders. He was disobeying orders. This woman was _in the way_. But…she was helpless and harmless. He heard the joyous shouts of children on the other side of the alley, playing games and fighting this war the only way they could: with hope. Maybe this woman had it too. Hope that they would leave her home alone, that they would tire of this infernal murder. Killing innocent people, elders, children, families, human beings, was horrific. Roy felt ill, thinking of what he'd done already in the neverending battle, what he was ordered to do today._

I can't. I can't do this! No. NO! _he thought desperately to himself, fighting the knowledge that he had no choice in this. This wasn't his decision to make. This was war._

_Inhibitions dissolved in a split second, and he snapped his fingers. He incinerated everything, the old woman, the young children, the wooden beams of homes that families owned. The tip of Hughes' gun had melted, and was dripping molten metal into a puddle. Not even the bones of these people remained. Not even the memories._

_Orders were orders. But single tear streamed down Roy's cheek, nonetheless._

_When they'd burned the city and deserted the battlefield, when the Eastern Tower was lonely and crumbling, when they'd hurt so many people it began to hurt them too, Roy and Hughes trekked back across the desert with the late afternoon sun beating on their backs._

_Hughes tried to distract Roy, talking about Gracia and life in Central after the war. Roy pretended it was working, and played along to cheer up his fellow soldier. At his core, disgust smouldered sorrowfully. Guilt nearly incapacitated him, shame didn't leave his side. He was crippled by the vile acts of war his hands had dealt; the Ishvalan's losing every bet of the card game played with fire._

_A subordinate approached Hughes with a letter. From, who else, Gracia._

"_After receiving this letter, I can make it through today. I can think about tomorrow again." Hughes told him. He looked serene, and Roy wondered how he could be, when the land was literally burning around them. How could he love someone with a soul ripped by murder?_

_Each glimpse Roy had of a future mirroring the comparative serenity of the past was seen through a film of blood-spattered guilt. And what was a future, if his hands were so sodden with blood they could never hold hers?_

"_Hello, Major Mustang. Do you still remember me?"_

_But that…that was the voice of – she pulled down her hood. The voice was no longer innocent and clear, but coloured by hardship, hardened by death. It was Riza Hawkeye, and she had the eyes of a killer._

"_What…what are you doing here?!"_

"_I take it you know this girl?" Hughes asked, smirking. "I'll leave you two alone."_

_No. Not her. Not now, not today, not ever. Not when she'd trusted him, and he'd just burned a thousand civilians because some idiot general had told him to. He'd abused her trust, and her secrets. He'd become a killer too. She shouldn't have trusted him. He wished she hadn't._

"_It really has been a long time. You look tired, Major. As for what I'm doing here, well, I'm under orders to position myself at the Eastern Tower and shoot anyone who could pose as a threat to the camp."_

_The blows kept coming at Roy. It was like someone was pounding his chest with a giant sledgehammer and every time the hammer came down, it send spiderweb cracks through his skull._

"_No, I meant…what are you doing in the military? In Ishval?"_

"_You told me once that you wanted to make this country a better place. I came to help you."_

"_But, you're only nineteen!"_

"_I graduated from the military academy early, on account of my, ah, abilities. They needed another killer here. They're running short on expendables."_

_Roy flinched. The mere thought that his Riza was _expendable_, that she could _die_ here, was inadmissible. He struggled to come to terms with the fact that the fire-eyed girl, who'd anchored him so strongly to reason, was a soldier here to sacrifice her life for her country, for him. He felt his face contort into a stony mask, forced there to hide the turmoil raging beneath. He'd lost his integrity and his humanity to the battlefield – he wouldn't lose her too._

"_You are _not_ expendable. You are a valuable human being, and I won't let you die here."_

"_Well, I suppose we'll be watching each other's backs, then, as I'm detailed to guard the State Alchemists with my life. Have no doubt that I will," she told him, eyes on fire like he'd seen them burn before._

_When he'd lived at Master Hawkeye's house, he'd watched her grow from a timid mouse to the strongest girl he'd ever known. He wondered if without him, she would have withered. Whatever the case, he was happy he was there to lift the burdens from her shoulders, carry some weight in the heavy house of her father. He taught her how to laugh and throw punches. She taught him how to cry and make stew and revel in silence._

_There was a day that memory never faded from his mind, a day when she had told him to meet her on the back porch when her father wasn't looking. He wondered why it mattered, as Master Hawkeye cared only for his daughter when he hit her hard across the cheek each time she displeased him. As he was waiting for Riza on the rotting wooden boards of the porch steps, he heard the smack that meant he was angry again. Roy stood up quickly, but didn't know how to intervene in these affairs that weren't quite his business, but hurt him just the same. He heard a thump, and a yell from Master Hawkeye, followed by, "YOU LITTLE BITCH, YOU GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW SO I CAN TEACH YOU A LESSON! DON'T YOU EVER-"_

_And then a streak of gold in the summer sun flew by him, a bony hand grabbed his own and pulled him along in her wake. Riza fled, with Roy in tow, beyond the edge of the estate. They hopped the fences and escaped into the field beyond. The grass rippled and glowed, framed by the plain vibrancy of the open sky._

"_I punched him," Riza said breathlessly, her eyes darting up to meet Roy's and then flickering back towards the open plain. "I punched him in the stomach."_

"_Did you tuck your thumb under like I taught you?"_

"_Yes. I did." Her tawny eyes met his again, and the fierce flames he saw in their depths knocked the wind out of him. There was a fire there brighter and more deadly than anything alchemy could conjure. That was the first time she fought back, and he could tell by her stare that it wouldn't be the last._

That had been the beginning. Roy wondered when it would end.

Today, Dr. Marcoh had restored his vision. With Havoc healed and walking again, Roy had finally consented to the use of the stone on his stolen eyes. Alone in an empty operating room, his empty eyes saw jagged red light, pulsing with the power of a thousand souls and seeping into him through optic nerves. He felt tingling reattachment from cell to cell, a heavy weight lifting from his deep black pupils, and the sore glory of simple shapes reassembling themselves before him.

"Thank you, Dr. Marcoh. How can I ever-"

"No. I did this because I wanted to, because I want this nation to be whole again. Do that, and consider your debt repaid."

"Yes, that I will."

"Would like to see your comrades? They're all waiting for you."

Roy walked slowly back to the room he shared with Riza, marvelling at the richness of the turquoise tiles forming a pattern with white on the hallway floor. Wondering at the colour of sunlight streaming through the windows cut into each wall. Admiring blue sky, green leaves, white sheet, the gleaming handle of the door. And Riza's beautiful face. He'd noticed before that it was lovely, but he'd become so used to it glaring at him, smiling or looking stern, amused or annoyed, that it carved grooves in his memory where it settled comfortably. Only in small moments would he be surprised by its contents, and this was no small moment.

He could drown in her eyes, warm and golden-brown. There was fire in them, always was, but today it was welcoming and joyful. The slope of her nose, the simple symmetry of her lips, and her rosy cheeks caught him by surprise. The sun formed a halo around her yellow hair, but she didn't need the sun to be radiant. She radiated light just as she was, her presence illuminating the darkness that remained in the crawlspace of his mind.

She smiled at him. He grinned back.

He reluctantly tore his gaze from Riza and looked around the room. Filling it were the members of his team, smiling broadly. Fuery, Breda, Havoc, Falman, and Black Hayate. The puppy had grown into a massive dog, and as soon as he saw Roy he bounded from his position at the foot of Riza's bed, across skidded across the floor, and attempted to tackle Roy. Paws on Roy's chest, Black Hayate let out a bark.

"Bad boy, Hayate!" Riza said sternly, gun already drawn and pointed at the dog. "Down."

"Put that weapon away, Lieutenant," Roy told her, laughing, "You'll shoot me."

"I wouldn't miss, sir. Welcome back."

Roy sat down in one of the many chairs scattered around the room, supplied for the frequent guests and never removed. Leaning back into the cushioning, he surveyed the room. He felt so fortunate just to be able to do that, a luxury he'd been so suddenly denied. He would appreciate beauty so much more after this ordeal; beauty and light.

"So sir, since you can see now, are you going to leave the hospital and come back to Central Command?" Fuery asked eagerly, breaking the amiable silence.

"Yes, I am. I'm leaving today. But that doesn't mean the guard on this room will be lifted! I want at least two sentries guarding this room around the clock until Lieutenant Hawkeye is discharged."

"Sir, that's really not necessary-"

"I am your commanding officer and I will decide what's necessary, Lieutenant."

An unspoken agreement passed between the two. Like so many of their shared words, these words weren't shared at all. It was the wild fear in his eyes, barely masked. It was what he'd told her, in Ishval on that very first day of their alliance. It was the way she understood that this wasn't only for her. It was the way their eyes locked, a tunnel that blurred everything else to black but connected them in a way that nobody would ever really understand. It was the fire in her eyes, and the ice in his, and the fact that they moved with each other in a kind of lonely dance in which they never quite touched. It was known.

"Okay, sir."


	4. alliance

**A/N: **Thank you to my tinychat crew for listening and plotting and crying with me. Special recognition to Kas (sunshineowl on here) and her beautiful fic _She Drinks to Drown_ (it can be found on her tumblr, lionhearted-hawk) for the inspiration for this chapter. I'm getting more and excited as this story carries on and I flesh out the final plot details. Seeing all the elements intertwine is so brilliant and magical.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Alliance**

_alliance (n): a union between states or individuals._

* * *

Riza examined her appearance in the silver mirror. Her long yellow hair, once short, now hung halfway down her back in a smooth curtain.

_The day her mother died, her father took scissors and roughly chopped her childhood curls. At five years old, she didn't understand where here mama had gone._

"_Daddy, why are they putting mama in the ground? Why are they putting dirt on her? Make them stop it!" she cried, and Master Hawkeye silenced her with a harsh glare._

_Once they got home, he made her lean over the kitchen sink and watch her long hair wash down the drain as he cut it off bit by bit. She wore her hair short after that, under her father's orders. He told her, "It could get caught in something while you're cleaning," but as she grew older she realised it was because her mother's hair was long and golden and he couldn't stand to think of her. _

_When the handsome boy from Central knocked on the door, she answered in a stained apron, her hair ragged and cut without a mirror. She was ashamed of her ugliness, but he gave her a warm smile anyways. He'd earned her heart with it, because it was the first time that she could remember anyone smiling at her with such kindness in their eyes, or any kindness at all. She didn't know many people and those she did were cruel and heartless. That smile was a precious thing she carried with her, and Riza collected the many more that followed in a secret hoard that she drew upon for strength. _

_After seeing little Winry's cascade of hair like sunlight, Riza thought of her mother again. She barely remembered her, only in flashes filled in by the portraits she'd uncovered in corners and hiding places. But she remembered beauty, strength, fairness, and kindness in the warm arms that wrapped around her and smelled of roses. _

_Riza's hair grew back straight._

She'd left the hospital a few days ago, and would resume her work as the colonel's lieutenant within the week. Early that morning, she opened her eyes to a pale sunrise and the abrupt ring of her telephone.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

"Yes sir?" she replied groggily, having dragged herself out of bed and stumbled to the answer. She yawned.

"I hope I didn't wake you," Colonel Mustang told her.

"Too late now. Did you need something?"

"Actually, yes. I'm calling a meeting for the team at my foster mother's bar. It would be best that no one recognised you, as this meeting isn't technically within the bounds of allegiance to the state."

Riza was confused and more than slightly concerned. What on earth was he planning this time?

"Sir, is this about Ishval?"

"Yes, but I can't go into detail now. 8 o'clock tonight. Don't be followed."

"Yes, sir." The line went dead, and a buzzing noise hovered around the earpiece until she hung up.

She sighed and wandered over to her closet. As a member of Team Mustang, work never really ended. And as his second in command, her life was his. And, well, he asked for a disguise. She smiled slightly to herself, and thought, _this calls for heels._

In the mirror, examining her appearance, she smiled again. Not that she would ever admit it to anyone, but she was having _fun_. Her simple black dress clung to her chest and flared out at the waist, and she wore a pair of red high heels. In a split second decision, she swiped a tube of lipstick across her mouth. For the disguise, of course.

The bar was close enough that she could walk.

"Black Hayate, don't misbehave while I'm gone," she said, rubbing the dog on the head. He gave a bark in response. She laughed, "Good boy."

She climbed down the rusted stairs of her apartment and walked out into the cool air, and it reminded her that autumn wasn't far off.

Riza turned a corner, when she felt a hand wrap around her arm and another cover her mouth. The hands grabbed her and pulled her into a side alley that smelt of rotting garbage. The hand around her arm moved to grope her chest, and a voice rasped, "My, aren't you pretty. I know just what I'd like to do to you…unfortunately, I'm under orders."

"So am I!"

She angled herself and elbowed the assailant in the diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him. Reaching up, she grabbed his arm and pushed downwards, breaking his hold. With his fingers still wrapped around her arm, she drew back and punched him in the face with all her strength. He doubled over in pain. Twisting away from him, she aimed a kick at his face, high heel carving a deep gash from his jaw to his temple. He clutched his face in pain and blood seeped through his fingers; Riza felt a twinge of satisfaction. Wasting no time, she stepped back and pulled a gun from her thigh holster. Like she would leave the house without a gun.

Aiming at his head, Riza's eyes burrowed into him in a cold stare. Or at least, she hoped they did. Visibility was highly impaired in the alleyway. "If you thought that I'd let you do that, you're dead wrong," she said harshly. She could barely see, but she could tell he man was wiry and bearded, with matted hair.

"I'm only here to deliver a message. Colonel Mustang should be careful. Some think his ambition could be considered treacherous."

Riza used her sniper's eye to find her target. She lived up to her name. But as she pulled the trigger, he fled into the shadows, and her bullet bounced off bricks instead.

The men of Team Mustang sat around a table in the bar: Colonel Mustang, Second Lieutenant Havoc, Sergeant Fuery, and Second Lieutenant Breda. Falman was missing, having returned to his fiancée in the north. He would no longer be actively participating as a member of the team.

Roy wondered where on earth the lieutenant was. It was unlike her to be this late. He would worry, but this was his lieutenant and she could take care of herself. That didn't mean, though, that she didn't require a little help sometimes. He wondered if she needed it now.

The door of the bar opened, and a blonde in heels and lipstick walked in. The colonel did a double take. Was that…the lieutenant? He look around at the other members, who had obviously forgotten somewhere along the way that Lieutenant Hawkeye was a woman. Fuery's jaw dropped, and Havoc had a bemused look plastered across his face. Only Breda seemed unfazed.

"Hey, lieutenant," he called, and she turned and approached their table. Roy elbowed Havoc and hissed to Fuery, "Pick your jaw up off the floor, Sergeant."

Not that Roy himself wasn't stunned. It had been a long time since he'd seen her in a dress, and he didn't know she even _owned_ lipstick. Riza wasn't one for surprises, but he had asked for a disguise. She'd outdone herself this time.

"Sorry I'm late. There was an . . . incident."

"What kind of incident?" Fuery asked.

"It's unimportant."

Roy met her eyes, and she shook her head in a way that he knew meant, "We'll discuss it later." He accepted this, but wouldn't let her go home tonight until he found out exactly what had happened to disrupt her impeccable punctuality.

"Drink, lieutenant?"

"I don't drink."

"Right," Roy knew that. How could he have forgotten? The last time she drank, well…

_Two days after her father's death, Roy and Riza attended the funeral. Roy had shouldered the cost, and as much as she protested, there was no money left to the Hawkeye family name. None at all. He reasoned with her, saying, "Master Hawkeye was my mentor. It's my duty to see that he's properly laid to rest."_

_She sighed, and reluctantly agreed. He realised she didn't have another choice. _

_The day of the funeral, the day her secrets of flame alchemy were revealed, the day Riza Hawkeye discovered alcohol. These three things marked Roy's memory of the last day they were just two children, struggling to find their way._

_That night, Roy woke to sobbing. He got up, quickly buttoned his shirt, and wandered the house in search of his friend. Her room was empty, door ajar. He saw stars like little crystals from her window, but in their meagre light he couldn't find the girl herself. Roy made his way down the creaking stairs and into the kitchen. The paint peeled off the walls. He slowly turned, and saw Riza huddled in the corner of the pantry, small hands wrapped around the neck of an ancient bottle of whiskey. Her eyes were red and she trembled, wracked with sobs._

"_Oh, Riza…" he said, hurrying over to her. "Riza, give me that."_

"_No…mine," she slurred._

_He sat down beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. Her head fell onto his shoulder. Did she know how much it hurt him to see her like this? How much of a shock it was? Riza Hawkeye, calm but fierce, never reckless. He'd never seen her fall apart and he didn't quite know how to put her back together, so he just cradled her in his arms and hoped she'd be alright._

_She moved to take another drink, but Roy gently prised the bottle from her hands. He set it down but realised, it was empty anyway._

"_God, Riza, you've had way too much to drink."_

_She hiccupped and started to sob again, clutching Roy's arm and holding on for dear life. _

"_He's dead, and you're…you're just going to leave again and I'm…I'm going to be alone. I gave you my secrets..."_

"_Riza," he said her name sadly. "I have to go. If I could stay, I would. I promise I would. But Amestris is falling apart, and there's no one there to fix it. It's my duty to try my best to protect and save this county…and protect you in it."_

_He pulled her to his chest and held her tightly, hoping to provide some measure of protection against the ache of her loss. She buried her face in his shirt, leaving damp patches where tears soaked through. He hated those tears. Truth be told, he hated Master Hawkeye for his neglectful abuse and violent hands. He'd loved Riza, but she was too much like her mother. She'd hurt him by the simple fact of her existence. Roy saw the toll this took on her; he saw the fierce defiance in her submission, he saw her trampled like a daisy in the road, a weed that was a flower in disguise, a resilient golden flame. And somehow, she still loved her father. She wasn't the kind to sacrifice love so easily. Maybe Master Hawkeye used to be different. Maybe she remembered it. Maybe that's why she was broken tonight, and Roy would do whatever it took to keep her safe from herself._

_If that meant holding her steady while she vomited into the kitchen sink at 3 a.m., then it was a small price to pay. If that meant falling asleep on the living room couch with her pounding head on his lap, stroking her hair until she calmed, that wasn't so bad at all. As the sun rose and her mind righted itself again, he twined his fingers in her hair, and whispered that he loved her. As the words fell from his lips, he knew they were true and always had been. _

"_I've always loved you, too," she whispered, and pressed her lips gently to his. He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her with everything he had. Her lips were electric, and he wondered how she could kiss like this with no practice. He gripped the back of her head and she wrapped her arms around his neck as the kiss deepened, raw and fraught with pain. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him. His alarm clock trilled from upstairs, causing Riza to jerk away. She looked down, blushing, still on his lap with his hand at her waist._

"_Riza, my train's at 8. I have to go. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."_

"_I understand, Roy. Good luck."_

In the dim light of the bar, their eyes locked, knowing they shared the memory of that "I love you" and it hung in both their minds tonight.

Riza pulled out a chair and sat down next to Roy, and he fought the urge to blatantly stare at her. Her smoky eyes and her red lips and her chest that she always covered with so much modesty but didn't tonight. She looked like a different person, but of course she was the same.

"Colonel, what was it that you brought us here for?" she asked briskly.

"I needed to discuss my plans for Ishval and exactly how they'll be carried out. I have yet to make my proposal to Fuhrer Grumman, but there's no doubt in my mind that he'll accept and I'll be transferred to Eastern Command. You four will accompany me, of course. I need your support if I'm going to become Fuhrer."

Fuery's eyes widened at this statement, but Havoc and Breda remained composed. Roy suspected they knew all along of his ambitions. He'd never told them outright, and obviously Fuery hadn't grasped the extent of his ambitions, but at this point, after so long, he thought they should know.

"My ideas for the reconstruction of Ishval include Amestrian and Ishvalan coordinance in rebuilding infrastructure, assistance in agricultural efforts, encouragement of the re-emergence of traditional Ishvalan culture and religion, and a continued reinforcement of the idea that Amestris is an ally through sponsorship and support of a local democratic government."

"Sounds good, chief," Havoc said, "When do we leave?"

"My hopes are within the next two weeks, depending on how long it takes to obtain the Fuhrer's approval," his voice became low and he began to speak intently, "But the main reason we're meeting here, and not in my office in Central Command, is that I need your loyalty not only to Amestris, but to me, personally. I know I already have, but I want you all to be aware of the risks involved if you're going to support me becoming Fuhrer. Grumman is an old man and as such obviously can't remain Fuhrer for long. I plan to be his successor. It's politically dangerous, and I could lose everything. So could you. I'm going to ask you, like I did the first time I assigned you to my team, are you prepared for this?"

"Yes, sir!" they all said in unison. Roy smiled at them.

"Thank you."

The colonel leaned back against the post of a streetlamp outside the bar. Riza had made sure she was the last to leave, and walked out the door to find him waiting for her. His hair was slicked back tonight, the way she liked it best. It made her sad that she couldn't tell him.

"What happened?" he asked her sharply, but she knew him well enough to ascertain that the sharpness was masking concern.

"A man grabbed me and pulled me into an alley. As soon as I had my gun pointed at his head he ran away."

"Where on earth are you hiding a gun in that outfit?"

She rolled her eyes, "Thigh holster. Anyway, that's not the point. He told me to give you a message. He said you should be careful, that some people may think your ambition is treacherous."

Roy looked at Riza thoughtfully, brow creased.

"Any idea what that could mean, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir."

"Did he hurt you?"

"I didn't give him the chance," she smiled.

"I'm walking you home, Lieutenant."

She sighed. "But sir-"

"No objections. It's on my way home."

"No it's not."

"I want to."

He wasn't the only one. She didn't need his protection, but she treasured any company they shared when they weren't fighting, or in uniform. The limitations of that uniform reared in her mind, and she considered an alternate past where she was simply Riza and hadn't learned to shoot. Where would they be now, in what terms would they address each other, in what terms would they define each other? And with that kiss still lingering in her mind, she drowned her sorrow in the clatter of her heels on the pavement and the warm body separated only by inches of empty air.


	5. isolation

**A/N: **Writing as Havoc was a bit more challenging, but I'm glad I chose to diversify the narrative! As always, thanks to my crew for encouragement and advice.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Isolation**

_isolation (n): the state of being alone._

* * *

Jean Havoc was smoking his first cigarette of the morning when Rebecca wandered over to the window and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

"Hey," she said softly, her voice sending little shivers down his spine.

"Hey." He put out his cigarette and grinned at her. She was really beautiful. Damn. He turned and pulled her tight against him, feeling her body, soft and supple, against his. Placing his hands on her lower back, he leaned down and kissed her. It was sweet and tasted like desire. His hands attempted to lift the hem of her shirt over her head. She laughed.

"We don't have time for this, Jean. You still need to pack. How you haven't even started already I don't even know."

"Well, I was going to last night, but you came in and distracted me and obviously I can't resist."

"Obviously," she smirked. Havoc marvelled at his luck in finding a woman like her. She wasn't just some girl. She was strong and smart enough to fight in the military, and she was attractive as hell too. Especially with her hair down, when he could run his fingers through the soft waves just like this.

"Jean, stop it," Rebecca sighed happily. He knew she liked it. "You need to pack."

"How about just one more time. Then I promise I'll pack. Please?" he looked at her with his best puppy dog eyes.

"Oh come here," she told him, pulling him down onto the bed as their limbs tangled and they kissed deeply, mouths melting together. Yes, he was definitely a lucky man.

At the train station, whistles blowing and steam billowing, Rebecca said goodbye to Lieutenant Hawkeye fondly. They were old friends, having trained together at the military academy. The lieutenant was the only person Havoc knew who could outshoot Rebecca. He knew that she would miss the lieutenant and her constant attempts to convert her into what she called a "normal woman with normal priorities like shopping and makeup and men". However, a week before, Jean told Rebecca that it was no use trying to get the lieutenant interested in men. It was a fruitless cause.

"Rebecca, there's no way Hawkeye will ever date anyone you try and set her up with."

"Why on earth not?"

"You know why. Everyone knows why. Except, obviously, her and the colonel."

"Oh, I think they know."

"Why are you still trying to set her up on dates, then?"

"Because I'm holding out for the day she breaks down and tells me that she loves Mustang and that I need to stop trying to get her to date random men."

"She hasn't even told you?" Havoc asked incredulously.

"Nope. Not a word. She did tell me about a boy, when we were roommates at the academy…she never said his name, but I have my suspicions."

Havoc's eyes widened and he grinned, "You don't say. You wouldn't mind telling me _exactly_ what she said, would you?"

Rebecca glared at him, "That's none of your business."

"Hey, you mentioned it first. But I'm sure we could find something a little more interesting to talk about, don't you think? Or, we really don't have to talk at all."

Rebecca finished her goodbyes to the rest of the team, and walked over to Havoc. She hugged him tightly, whispering, "I'll wait for you. As long as you're gone, I'll wait for you. And I'll write lots of letters too."

"I'll see you soon, okay? And I'll write back every time."

He waved to her from the train window as she faded into the distance. A girl who actually wanted to be with him. A girl who'd actually wait for him. He'd still tried to use the excuse of having a girlfriend to stay in Central, but Colonel Mustang wouldn't take it.

"That's utter bullshit, Lieutenant Havoc."

He was going to miss her. It wasn't just the way she looked (although that didn't hurt, her boobs were _incredible_), but who she was. He'd really fallen in love this time. Maybe this was the first time. Sure, there'd been girls. Tons of girls. Multitudes, really. Hordes. But he guessed it was kind of different this time. Havoc would tell Rebecca he loved her…at some point. He just didn't have to courage yet.

Lieutenant Hawkeye and Colonel Mustang sat next to each other, perhaps slightly closer than they would have sat a year ago, a few months ago. What happened on the Promised Day had drawn them even closer, and the team could see it brilliantly clear. Their king and queen would always be an indomitable unit that couldn't be broken by anyone, or anything. Looking at them, Havoc felt a twinge of…jealousy? Exclusion? Loneliness? Maybe that was it. In a way, the colonel and the lieutenant were the luckiest of all; they never had to separate. They was nothing that _could_ separate them – not war, not suffering, not anger or pain. The only thing that could rip them apart was, maybe, the strength of their own feelings for each other and their inability to admit them. Watching them fight it for so long, Havoc wondered if fraternisation laws would genuinely isolate them as they had for forever and before. It was a sad line they balanced on.

Breda nudged him, shattering his reverie.

"Havoc, you're not supposed to smoke on the train," Lieutenant Hawkeye scolded him as he pulled out a pack of his favourite cigarettes. Rebecca liked the taste when she kissed him so fluidly. The colonel let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Is it really going to do anyone any harm, lieutenant? There's literally not a single other person on this train."

She reluctantly gave in with a shake of her head. Havoc blew smoke out the window and wondered what pain would linger after the war, how raw the wounds still were. And how the Ishvalans had healed, if at all.

When the train rolled sluggishly into the decrepit station, he knew. It was little more than a crumbling stone platform in the midst of a city that had been burned. He looked at the colonel as his face hardened, an angry shield against the guilt that Havoc believed boiled in his blood each day. There was no ignoring the fact that a large majority of this ruin fell at his hands, disintegrated at his feet.

The team walked the short distance from the train station to Ishvalan Command – a large decaying building, beige and charcoal-stained. Marks of black reached up the walls like claws. Since the colonel was directly overseeing the reconstruction in the city, this was where they would do paperwork and report to and train at and live their lives around. Havoc didn't imagine it would be very pleasant.

Upon entry, they were greeted by a sight not hinted at from the building's exterior. It was clean, and white, and occupied by several clerks on telephones.

"Oh, Colonel Mustang! I'm Harriet Lewis and I've been designated the task of showing you around Ishvalan Command." She saluted smartly. Havoc noticed corkscrews of red hair and a nice enough face – maybe a month ago he would have set his sights on her, but not anymore.

Harriet began to show them the convoluted layout of the command centre, whose offices where located where, what hiding spaces existed for emergency use, and who held what rank and duty. Colonel Mustang would be the new commanding officer. Havoc snickered at the thought. This wouldn't go to his head at _all. _

"Colonel, there's a letter for you on your desk. I'll leave you all to get settled now," Harriet announced, and walked primly out with her hands clasped in front of her.

The colonel strolled over to his desk, sat down, and put his feet on the desk.

"Sir…" the lieutenant said despairingly. The colonel didn't even glance up. He reached for the letter and tore the seal with a loud rip.

"Hey, Havoc, wanna play cards?" Breda asked.

"Sure. Loser does winners paperwork for a week," Havoc suggested. He knew he would beat them all. He always did.

"Fuery? Lieutenant Hawkeye? Fancy a game?"

The lieutenant shot the two men a stone cold stare. "I don't gamble."

"Fuery?" Havoc asked, unfazed.

"I always lose," Fuery complained grumpily.

"Guess it's just us then."

"Subordinates, I have important news," the colonel stated loudly. "_'Due to your contributions during the events of the Promised Day, and your continued loyalty to Amestris, you have been promoted to the rank of Brigadier General by order of Fuhrer Grumman'_" he read. Fuery gasped, Havoc grinned, Breda nodded as if he knew that this would happen all along. And Lieutenant Hawkeye? She smiled softly at Mustang, the smile that was only for him, the only smile that reached her eyes and lit them up like candles. "Oh, one more thing. _P.S., tell my granddaughter I say hello and send my love._" The colonel, uh, general, looked directly at Hawkeye, and smirked.

The grin slid off Havoc's face, replaced by an expression of incredulity.

Lieutenant Hawkeye sent a death glare at the General Mustang, her eyes that just seconds ago smiled had turned to icy daggers, and her lips drew into a tight line.

Havoc burst out laughing at the ridiculous idea that Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye was the granddaughter of the Fuhrer. But from the looks the two were giving each other - the general's smug smirk and the lieutenant's death glare – it must be _true_. "Oh," Havoc said, "are you really," he burst out laughing again, "Grumman's granddaughter?"

"I don't see how it's relevant, but yes."

Breda and Fuery let out amused snorts of suppressed laughter. Lieutenant Hawkeye sighed. "Was that really necessary, sir?" she asked exasperatedly.

"Indeed it was. It was…unfair of you to keep this particular bit of information from the team. It could be important!"

"Don't mock me, colonel. Sorry. General." He looked exceedingly smug. Hawkeye muttered, loud enough for him to hear, "It's already gone to your head."

Havoc was still trying to control his laughter.

Riza raised her voice over the cackling. "If you don't all shut up now I swear I'll shoot you!"

Silence.

When the sun had set and Havoc had won at cards, Harriet returned to show them to their rooms in the barracks. Havoc groaned at the thought of living in barracks yet again, like during training. Lucky, though, that he'd never had to sleep in a barracks at war. But he couldn't get comfortable, the cot too similar to a hospital bed. A fear gripped him, one that he felt sometimes when it got dark and there were no cigarettes or girls to kiss. What if when he woke up, his legs had stopped working? What if the philosopher's stone that General Mustang had instisted be used to heal him, what if it wasn't enough, or what if it wore out? What if he got stuck in a wheelchair behind the register of the family store again? He stood up and stretched, pacing because he could. For reassurance. Because he could. But the room was too small, not enough room for how many steps he wanted to take, to feel the hit of his feet on the ground and the bend in his knees and his toes against his too-small boots. He wandered the halls now, and passing Mustang's office, saw the door ajar.

Peering into the room, he saw the general, little more than a silhouette facing the window. Outside, the moon bleached the ruins of the city white with a kind of devastating magnificence. Turning, General Mustang dropped into the seat at his desk and buried his face in his hands, shaking with fear or rage or something else, a sort of anguish held so tightly inside him that is threatened to rupture his skin and seep out like the blood of the people who died here.

Havoc knew this was something that shouldn't be seen, but as he turned to go, he caught a whisper of, "I'm sorry" muttered thickly through tears.


	6. ammunition

**A/N:** Sorry for the wait, AP World History will be the death of me. I hope to be updating more frequently as I get used to being back in school. This chapter was a rollercoaster to write, and this is where the pace really picks up and we get to see, well, you know what, just read the chapter. Thanks to everyone on tumblr for the constant encouragement, even when it gets hard.

*Edits: I made several small changes to the story after some receiving some very apt constructive criticism about characterisation. Also, there's a little part at the end you might want to reread. Anyway, I do hope I was able to make some improvements!

* * *

**Chapter 6: Ammunition**

_ammunition (n): projectiles fired from a gun; materials used for defending a position._

* * *

There was a dusty breeze wandering through the streets of Ishval. Roy Mustang surveyed the city, sparsely inhabited by Ishvalan refugees slowly returning home. He registered a sweeping architecture of towers and archways blown to rubble, overlayed with a filter of the city in its former glory. A ghost of the former glory, like when he'd first arrived, before fire was demanded from his fingertips. His team stood beside him, staring from their vantage point atop the languishing ruins of an ancient cathedral across the expanse of stone and wood that lay in patterned disarray, like a spider's web.

"I did this. Not all of it, but most. And now, now I'm going to atone for what I've done as best I can. I can't save the lives I took, or heal the injuries I've caused. But I can help rebuild Ishval. I've made a resolution, not to use flame alchemy here."

The team collectively turned to him with surprise in wide eyes.

"But sir, is that really wise?" Lieutenant Hawkeye asked.

"I cannot cause any more pain with my alchemy. It damn well won't help my position here. I need to gain the trust of these people, and if anything happens and I use flame alchemy, I would alienate them even more."

"I understand, sir. But you can't be left defenceless. You'll need to start carrying a gun like a normal soldier, if you aren't going to be using alchemy."

"Aye aye, Lieutenant," he smiled kindly at her. Her concern was a warmth that diffused the rawness of the surrender of his identity. Roy Mustang: the Flame Alchemist. Who was he without fire? He was cold, he was an island far from power and far from strength. Temporary. This was only temporary, the extinguishing of his self. But who was he without the precious secrets in the click of his fingers?

"You're gonna be one of us now, sir," Havoc remarked, "No special powers or anything. Isn't that a bit of an…extreme change?"

"It's what's necessary right now. If I'm going to succeed, I'll need to make sacrifices. Anyway, it's only for a while."

He looked out over the city again, holding his loss close to his chest and standing tall with dignity he retained. This is the path he'd follow, whatever it took from him. He pulled out his gloves and handed them to the lieutenant. "For safekeeping."

To Riza he entrusted his power and his identity, the title that had become his definition. But he couldn't perpetuate the hatred here anymore, couldn't let flame alchemy become an instinct, a weapon, like Amestris had made it so long ago. He was a different man, and he had the clarity of thought to know the fundamental necessity of his sacrifice. He hated this. It must be done.

As he passed the gloves to his lieutenant, the tips of their fingers brushed quickly against each other. The contact of her skin was uncommon and thrilling. And just in the pads of his fingertips as they touched hers, he felt a pulse beating strong and steady. For a fleeting moment he imagined feeling that pulse, beating strong and steady, against his. Instantly, the same impenetrable wall arose that did so every time he entertained a thought like that. The wall's name was _fraternisation laws_. The wall's name was _old scars_. The wall's name was _no_.

His gloves were in her pocket, and he was left feeling feeble and naked beside the weapons of his comrades. But he remembered pulling triggers. Before he was the Flame Alchemist, he'd had to learn to shoot.

"_Mustang, what do you think you're doing! It's not a moving target, why can't you hit it with a bullet!" his drill sergeant bellowed while Hughes snickered. "You're not much better yourself! Now shut up and shoot, you pathetic excuses for soldiers!"_

_After the session at the target range was over, the two men returned to the barracks. Roy sank down into the bottom bunk while Hughes climbed the ladder to the top and bounced down on the thin mattress._

"_I can't shoot for shit," Roy stated blankly._

"_Nope," Hughes agreed. There was an empty pause, then Hughes asked, "Hey, Roy. If you don't figure out a way to use your flame alchemy, you're gonna die out there."_

"_I know," Roy growled frustratedly. "I just can't think of a way to ignite the flames. I can't draw a transmutation circle every time I need to use my alchemy. It's completely impractical."_

"_Not to mention you're a useless shot."_

"_Yeah. I know. I just said that."_

"_What about…gloves?"_

"_Uh, what?"_

"_What if you put the transmutation circle on gloves!" Hughes said excitedly. Roy snickered._

"_That is the most flamboyantly ridiculous idea I've ever heard."_

"_Hear me out. If you can't draw a transmutation circle every time you need to use the flames, if you have them sewn into gloves or something then you don't need to draw them."_

_Roy paused for a moment, considering. This…this could actually work._

"_But I still need ignition, somehow. It has to be instant. If I used some sort of…of gunpowder or something…" he trailed off._

"_What about ignition cloth? They use it in basic emergency kits if you need to start fires. When there's friction it produces a spark!"_

"_You're brilliant, Hughes! All I need to do is test it out, but in theory this could be my ticket to the title of State Alchemist."_

"_You're going to be turned into a human weapon, you know."_

_His friend was right. He would have to kill. He'd known that from the very beginning._

"_If I have to destroy in order to truly save this country, then I will. I'll do anything it takes to protect the people I love. And the only way to do that, the only way to repair this mess, is to become Fuhrer and do what I know is right."_

"_You always talk about protecting the people you love. Who are they, exactly?"_

"_Well, there's my foster mother, and my sisters. And obviously the citizens of Amestris itself. And-"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Nevermind. It's not important."_

"_Do you have a giiiiiiiiiilfriend?" Hughes asked teasingly._

"_No. No, I do not."_

"_Oh."_

_He didn't have a girlfriend. He had a person who had taken his heart in her hands and hadn't given it back. He had a person who he'd abandoned in rotting plaster and ivy. He had a person who he'd die for. He had a person who he'd live for. He had a person he might never see again._

_But he did, of course he did. He saw her with the eyes of a killer in the face of a girl, and her grace with a gun left him in awe. The girl was always good at fighting, always punched with precision when he taught her how to strike back. But he never imagined that her name betrayed her talents. _

_In Ishval with a rifle, bullets soaring and sinking into the flesh of the mark. In Central with a pistol firing fiercely, the grasp of her hands telling of her strength. He could never match the metal beauty of a bullet with tongues of fire. Especially not one of Riza's bullets._

Riza could keep her bullets. She wasn't the Hero of Ishval.

Hughes was dead. Whether or not he would have wanted Roy to give up flame alchemy couldn't be relevant now, because Roy stood alone. Brigadier Generals both, but they were separated by everything else but rank; the sun, the moon, the stars, the fickle blood of human bodies. Hunching his shoulders, Roy let the memory fade and murmured, "I'm sorry, Hughes. Goodbye."

"We have a lot of work to do in rebuilding this city. First, I want to get teams of workers making repairs on residences. Paid a reasonable wage by the government, of course. Breda, Havoc, Fuery, I want you to survey and establish the best locations to start with. Lieutenant, I want you to make a call to the office of the Fuhrer and discuss the budget we've been allotted for this project; it's not enough."

"Does this have anything to do with the fact that he's my grandfather?" she sighed exasperatedly.

"Yes."

The lieutenant narrowed her eyes.

"What are you gonna do, sir?" Fuery asked.

"I am going to acquire a gun. And try to remember how to use it."

Roy lounged on the emerald couch that he had asked (demanded) be placed in his office instead of in the reception area for just this purpose. He twirled the pistol he'd borrowed from the lieutenant with one hand.

"But, Grandfather Fuhrer, there's honestly not enough money to cover the wages required to help sustain the returning citizens. And the materials for the infrastructure are certainly not covered in the budget . . . yes, I understand that we don't have unlimited funds, but this is a fairly important project and –" Roy crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it at her, hitting Riza on the shoulder. She covered the receiver and hissed "What?"

"He is your grandfather, isn't he? Try being a bit sweeter, I know you can. He's basically obligated to give you whatever you want considering he neglected you for the first 27 and half years of your life." Roy whispered audibly from across the room.

Riza rolled her eyes and lifted the phone again.

"Do you think you could help us out, sir? Please? We'd all really appreciate it and this project means a lot to us . . . thank you very much. Yes. And remember to notify the Bureau of Finances about the change. And make sure to take care of Hayate; for goodness sake don't forget to feed him. Thank you, sir. Goodbye."

She hung up. "That is a weapon, not a toy, General," she said as she stalked over from her desk and snatched the pistol from Roy's hands.

"I see you took my advice. Sounds like it worked." Roy said smugly.

"It wasn't bad advice," she acknowledged begrudgingly. "Are you sure you're alright, sir? Giving up your flame alchemy . . . well, it's not something to be taken lightly."

"Relax, Lieutenant. Everything is going to be fine."

Even though it wasn't, he reassured her. Even though it was the farthest thing from fine. He felt drenched in rain, useless and worthless of his own volition. But the steps that must be taken to secure the trust of the people here were not easy ones, the steps that must be climbed to become Fuhrer were steep and treacherous.

"Sir, do you even know how to shoot?"

"Well, I learned in the military academy…but that was over ten years ago," he told her, and then mumbled, "I failed firearms training too."

"What did you say?"

"I uh, I failed firearms training?"

Riza sighed and rolled her eyes. "How on earth did you graduate if you failed firearms training?"

"I showed them my flame alchemy and they decided that knowing how to shoot wasn't really a necessity," at the furious look on Riza's face, he justified, "They would have held me back a year otherwise!"

"You used your flame alchemy for that?!" She screeched.

"Sorry."

Roy had the decency to attempt to look ashamed. But he loved when Riza got like this, it was too much fun not to enjoy.

"I trusted you with that information and you used it to get a passing grade? Why would treat it so frivolously? That is dangerous and irresponsible, not to mention a complete violation of your promise. And now you don't even know how to shoot! How are you going to protect yourself if I get killed and-"

Roy flinched.

"Hey," he said, standing and putting a hand on her shoulder. He met her eyes, still fuming, "Don't say things like that."

She softened. "Sorry, sir, I got carried away. You still shouldn't have done that though!"

He chuckled, and realised his hand was still on her shoulder. He didn't quite know what to do with it. He wanted to leave it there. But the lieutenant solved his problem for him, suggesting, "Let's go down to the practice range and see if I can teach you how to shoot."

Roy stood with a rifle on his shoulder, squinting at the target twenty feet away.

"No, you're not holding it right, sir. Your arm goes here," Riza said, adjusting his shoulders and reaching across to fix his grip. He nearly gasped at her closeness, the scent of warmth and soap and the firm touch of her small hands on his. He hadn't been this close to her since the Promised Day, and these circumstances were…quite different. No. Focus. Guns. That's what they were doing right now.

But she'd taken off her jacket, and her tight black shirt, and her hips, and her waist, and her breasts, and how was he supposed to aim when she was so _close_ to him?

"Are you ready?"

"Wha-oh, yeah."

"Alright."

He felt the presence of her body leave his side, settled the gun on his shoulder, and pulled the trigger. The bullet spiralled almost lazily off course and smashed against the stone wall.

"Sorry, Lieutenant."

"We're staying here until you can hit that bullseye, sir. All night, if we have to. I'm not leaving you defenceless."

After hours of shooting, Roy's ears hurt like hell and all the ammunition was gone. He'd improved enough that his bullets hit the target, and when they did he felt a like a sinking ship was drowning in his stomach, because the lieutenant might decide he was a good enough shot and retreat into the dusky barracks.

"Sir, I've got one more bullet left. Bullseye, okay?"

Roy nodded his assent. Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, he was about to shoot, when, "You're still holding it wrong. You can't lock your elbow or it'll throw the aim off when you fire." Riza stepped over to him and pulled at his arm. "You have to relax, sir. If you stay so stiff you won't be able to absorb to force of the blast."

Roy let out a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the lieutenant was still by his side. Like always. And her eyes met his, speaking in that secret language that had saved their lives so many times. He saw in them a kind of animalistic panic, hidden in the gold and russet kaleidoscope of her irises. She was afraid for him.

Their breaths matched, their eyes broke away, and Roy felt himself settle into the position of a rifleman. He felt her hand on his shoulder once again.

"Please."

She stepped away, he let out a sigh, and fired straight into the centre of the target.

Spinning around, he came face to face with her. Riza looked up at him, her face fierce, and the General couldn't help but smile and pull her into a hug. "Thanks, Lieutenant. I'm going to be fine."

"Can you promise me that, sir?"

"I can't promise you anything at all. I guess you'll just have to trust me."

She snorted, and he let her go.

"Just one thing, General. Don't die."

A rapid knocking on the chipped wood door, and both their heads whipped towards the entrance. It was too late at night for this to be anything but bad news.

Harriet, the redheaded clerk, pushed open the door. Looking frazzled and not at all like her usual prissy self, she blurted, "Sir and ma'am, there's something you both need to come see."

Harriet led them out of the practice range and into the harshly white hallways, gleaming as usual and oddly sinister tonight, empty, lightbulbs crackling. Walking into the reception area, they saw on the desk a dead bird with a bloody piece of paper attached to its leg.

"That's…that's a hawk," Riza gasped.

"What does the letter say?" Roy asked briskly.

"Uh, uh…I think you two should read it, sir," Harriet stuttered, obviously terrified.

Roy paced over to the desk and and unfolded the letter.

"Lieutenant, come here, please, this is addressed to both of us."

Roy read, in scrawled ink spattered with crimson:

_Brigadier General Roy Mustang and 1__st__ Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye,_

_ I regret to inform you, Brigadier General, that if you don't return to Central immediately and resume appropriate military duties then I will be forced to take matters into my own hands. Your absolute disrespect for the purity of the Amestrian bloodlines is disgusting. Amestris should be working to eradicate the Ishvalan race, and your obsession with restoring them to their former status cannot be allowed. Unfortunately, General, you must learn to realise that your actions do not affect only yourself, which is why not only you but your Lieutenant will be held responsible for your treacherous and disloyal actions. If you do not denounce your bid for the title of Fuhrer and leave the Ishvalan region to disintegrate in peace, a price will be paid and you will no longer be allowed to remain free. Consider this your final warning. If you do not take it seriously, I will be forced to show you how serious I am._


	7. incandescence

**A/N: **Well. This chapter has smut - just a warning. Big thank you to Alex and Google for the help with actually writing this because I have absolutely no idea how. Or I didn't. Hopefully I've improved. Anyways, this was the hardest and most time consuming chapter yet, so I really do hope I got it right.

If you feel uncomfortable reading it, just skip to the bottom where I'll post a summary of the chapter and you can avoid the sexytimes completely.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Incandescence**

_incandescence (n): intense heat; clarity; brilliance._

* * *

No. Not again would she be used by an enemy to blackmail her general. This time, she would fight with the strength of a hundred suns and she wouldn't be taken. Neither would he. Riza raised her hand to her neck and slowly ran her fingers along the snarls of scarred tissue, recalling the blurred memory of the underground, alchemy arrayed around her. Her bullets, her friends and her protectors, could only protest – in her limp hands they could not protect. Not again. In her burning eyes, in the grit of her teeth, in her ivory bones lay no fear, only a conviction, and a promise to never leave his side.

Riza wasn't that mirroring sacrifice. She was alive, she would prevail even in the darkest nights when not even a fire could light.

"Harriet, will you please go wake the rest of my team and ask them to assemble in my office?" The general commanded. Beneath the timbre of his level voice Riza detected the smallest of trembles. He was afraid. So was she – for him, for his future and his recklessness, for his past and for his enemies.

Perhaps it was the suddenness, the macabre warning of the dead hawk contaminating the grace with which the reconstruction had begun to gather.

She would not be a victim again.

"Lieutenant, we need to discuss our next course of action with the team. Let's go."

Lieutenant Havoc was wearing his uniform jack over his pajamas, but the other subordinates were properly attired. They looked grim.

"Were you informed of the situation, men?"

"Yes, sir."

"Obviously, the protection of Lieutenant Hawkeye is our first priority-"

"Excuse me! I seem to recall that letter was a threat to you."

He turned to her intently, "There's a dead hawk out there with a neck wound in the exact same place as yours. That doesn't seem to concern you as much as it should."

"I have no intention of letting anyone use me against you again. You should worry about yourself."

Fuery piped in, "Sir, maybe it would be better if you went back to Central . . ."

"Absolutely not! There is no way I'm abandoning my duties here because of some crazy individual who thinks he can threaten me and my lieutenant without repercussions."

_His lieutenant_. Riza fought the urge to smile at that, because nothing was more true. His lieutenant, his lionheart, his chess-piece queen. Always had been, since she opened the door and he lifted a small smile where no one did before. The wave of nausea that hit her when she imagined this threat becoming real, of losing her king, was nearly crippling. She kept all the horrors shoved in the cracks between her thoughts, unthinkable.

"But sir . . ." Breda questioned, not meeting his eyes, "You can't just keep going like everything's fine. That note and that bird. . ." he trailed off.

"He's right, sir," Riza told him. "As your bodyguard it's my job to make sure you stay safe, and that means not letting you carry on like normal right now. For god's sake, you don't even have any means of self-defense! Unless, of course, you'll take your gloves back."

"I can't risk losing Ishval over something stupid like this. I won't use flame alchemy!"

Riza shook her head at his stubbornness.

Fuery said quietly, "Sir, maybe it would be best if you went into hiding for a few days. Just until we figure out who's doing this and deal with them!"

At the pained look on Roy's face, Riza told him softly, "Sir, we might not be enough to protect you this time."

"And what about you? Am I supposed to just let you go when the threat's as serious for you as it is for me? No. You're coming too."

"How am I supposed to protect you if-"

"Think of it this way. We'll be in the same place, you'll obviously be able to protect me better there than anywhere else."

She saw the logic in that. If she couldn't watch like a hawk from the blue skies, she would have to land and fight through the dust of the earth. If she had to, she would.

Havoc, who hadn't said a word the whole time - his eyelids would sink every now and again and huge yawns looked as if they would dislocate his jaw - brightened and straightened up as he informed them, "We found this house while we were scouting today; no one lives there and there's a basement, it's at the end of a an alley so it's easy to defend. You guys would be much safer there than here. There are too many windows and almost no way to protect the perimeter. The house is in the East Tower sector, so it's not too far away, either."

Riza knew the general felt an electric shock like hers at the mention of the Eastern Tower, she saw him shiver. The story of his ruthless cremation of the stones and populace was infamous, as was her aim from the crumbling heights. It was their first battlefield coming round again, the ghosts of the war clinging to their backs in a neverending dance.

"Very well."

"What's the plan for us, then?" Fuery asked.

"Fuery, I want you to stay here at Command with Havoc and try to figure out who sent that message. Breda, you can accompany me and Lieutenant Hawkeye. One of these two will relieve you in the morning."

"Sir, don't you think we should call Central and notify them of what happened? Some back up might help . . ."

"No, lieutenant. I don't want to go running back to the Fuhrer every time there's a problem. Besides, I'm not sure whoever sent that message would like that very much. I trust that you can handle this, men. "

"Yes, sir!" was the collective exclamation, accompanied by salutes.

Riza tugged her jacket tighter around her as a cold wind cut through the city of Ishval. Whitewashed by the light of the moon, strange shadows underscored toppled bricks that had lay asleep for a decade. It was eerie to hide among the ruins of her battleground and find small daisies pushing up through the bullet holes. She was armed with a rifle, like the general (not much help he would be), and four handguns in her halter. Ready to shoot. They kept to the shadows, eyes watchful and steps quick, hushed. Anyone could lurk in the darkness of the night.

The leering Eastern Tower lay ahead, their compass in the convoluted streets. In the days of the war, this was her kingdom.

_She had come to find Roy Mustang. He used to smile. Now his mouth was a grim line, matched with his killer's eyes. But orders were orders, and she couldn't kiss him and begin what they'd ended on the alarm bell almost two years before. She could, however, protect him and his admirable ambitions with all the strength in her body and all the power of her will. She could fire bullets so straight that they'd swear it was divin intervention, but it was only strength and will, conviction and and a pure knowledge of what she was bound by love and duty to do. _

_They'd shared their words and walked away in opposite directions, her to the sentry's post she'd inhabit from this day forward. When she arrived, ash still flurried in the tiny breeze. Corpses littered the streets. Enveloped by heat, the smell of charred flesh brought bile rising into her throat and she fought the urge to vomit. If she gave in, broke down, she would remember all her kills. Clinical targets, her calculated murders and the way she had to had to watch as their knees crumpled and their chins hit the dirt. _

_Fighting the barrage of smells and heat and memories, she trudged through the streets. Opened her mouth to take a deep breath. Inhaled ash, the burned bodies of the innocents. Bile rose, left her heaving with the contents of her stomach on the cobblestones. She would climb the steps with the knowledge of her manslaughter not excused or justified, but commanded by the puppeteers and how could she fight the strings when they were all that held her together? She was strong enough to know that this was not right, but holding that thought steady in the midst of the blood was as strong as she could be._

_As she wound swiftly through the alleys, she heard the thin wails of a child calling for their mother, as she'd done so many times in her childhood. Before she learned resilience through bruises and curse words replacing her name. Her mother had met the same fate as the parent of that pitiful child – burned. Her mother was the accidental victim of a failed experiment. She was picking rosy apples in the garden, from a healthy green tree. Father put a lighter to a circle of gunpowder. The blast blew out the windows; a spark caught in the branches like a fallen star. The smell of roasting fruit had reminded Riza of apple pies in autumn, before she heard the screams. Her mother with fire in her hair, she looked like a god. Riza watched her mother's body burn to ash, heard the cracking bones and screamed too. She watched the flesh melt away, revealing sinew and blood. A nightmare that smelled like apple pie and the piercing wails that would never stop ringing in her ears, her mother's blackened corpse arrayed on the ground._

_Why was it that fire seemed to chase her everywhere she ran? Why did she choose to flee to the heart of the inferno? It had consumed everyone she loved, but addicted to the burn she marched with the knowledge that she could not be beaten by the flames that had become her home._

_She came upon the child, ash-smeared in a pink dress, burned away. The little girl's skin blistered raw. _

"_Come here, little one," Riza knelt and called. _

_Orders demanded her murder. Riza demanded mercy from the the jaws of the dogs for this innocent. "It's alright, I won't hurt you."_

"_Where's my mama?"_

"_I'm sorry. She's gone."_

_The child's eyes widened in comprehension. She understood Riza's light skin and the wrapped gun slung across her back. She ran. _

_Determined to hold on to the possibility of a future where everyone could live in happiness, Riza ventured on, up to the top of the tower. Search, aim, and fire. Watch them crumple. She made a resolution not to hesitate - she couldn't fall with them. There was someone she had to protect._

"Here's the house," Breda announced as they slipped into an alley and made their way towards the end. A small and crooked thing, with bulging bricks and decaying door, the house was an example of just how inconspicuous a thing could be.

"There's a ladder to the basement in the pantry, you can't see it unless you're looking for it."

"Breda, I want you stationed at the end of alley. Keep watch and fire a warning shot if you notice anything suspicious."

"Yes, sir. Lieutenant, we need to search and inspect the house. Make sure it's safe."

Riza nodded. Standard military procedure.

"Hand me a gun, will you?" he asked as they pushed quickly through the front door. Weapons held high in front of them, they began the search.

The house was old and decaying, the walls bowing under the weight of the roof and the burden of time. Riza hated it. Her childhood was filth and rubble, and she never wanted to return to those days of dust.

Her only comfort then had been the raven-haired boy, the cocky one who smiled at her like no one ever had before. She was grateful to be his protector, to stay close to his side and save him from himself.

After completing a thorough clearing of the house, Riza led the way to the basement. Down a rickety ladder, into a brick walled room with a tiny window with yet more dust piled on the sill.

The general sat down on the couch with his brow creased. His eyes stared at nothing, or so she assumed. Riza didn't know how interesting the floorboards could actually be.

"Sir, are you all right?"

"Obviously not, lieutenant. I've been forced out of my own office by death threats and I'm completely useless here. I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

Riza sighed. "It's better than risking it, sir. We don't exactly know what we're dealing with and until we do it's my job to make sure you're safe and don't do anything stupid."

"I guess it's a good thing, though. I can make sure you're safe this way, too."

"I can take care of myself."

"I know you can. That doesn't change the fact that, and I quote, 'we don't exactly know what we're dealing with.'"

She smiled at that, bowing her head. The general returned it, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

She was happy to be here with him, despite the circumstances, despite the fear, despite the claustrophobia and helplessness. Her heart was here with her, and she would let nothing put him in jeopardy. Armed with four handguns and rifle, armed with desperation.

Glancing back up, she saw him looking at her, face contorted with agony.

"Sir . . ."

"That hawk. I can't stop thinking about it. Promise me you won't die. Promise me."

"I can't promise you anything. You'll just have to trust me."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

Burying his face in his hands, he murmured, "I can't lose you. Not again. This can't be happening again."

Riza took a seat next to him on the couch, instinctively placing a hand on his shoulder before realising what she'd done. "You almost died, because of me. You . . . when you were lying in that hospital bed, I couldn't even see you. I couldn't even tell if you were alive or not."

Slowly, brought his hand up to her neck, pushed away her collar and ran his fingers along the knotted tissue of her scar. He traced the scar she bore for him like a whisper across her skin. He'd never touched her like this before, and she was thrilled and terrified at the rough warmth of the fingers that rested there.

She hated when people touched her, the self-contained entity of Riza Hawkeye – the solitary sentinel.

But his hands were different. His hands held their history of fire, and spread it across her skin. He broke her and he healed her, a cyclical torment of lonely stoicism.

"But I am alive. I have no intention of dying before you do. And I have no intention of letting you die," she managed to get out coherently, preoccupied with the pulse of his fingers matching hers.

"I'm useless. I can't use flame alchemy to protect us, or I risk losing Ishval, which is the reason we're in this mess in the first place."

Riza was saddened by the ache in his voice. She met his eyes, trying to tell him the story of his name, the Flame Alchemist not just in duty but in spirit as well. She hoped he could understand, somewhere behind his dark eyes that he was vital to this country, vital to her. Their eyes locked, heads bowed close together, and then the general's lips were on hers.

After less than a second, he jerked back and stood up. "Oh my god. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

But without thought, Riza had already risen to her feet and taken a step towards him, all the walls crumbling under the pressure of years and years and holding back the flood. He had kissed, after so long he had kissed her again. The rules and the fears, the vanished as electricity crackled, like a thunderstorm in her ribcage. She cupped the back of his head with her hand and kissed him, aggressive with deprivation and finally the breaking free.

He tensed in shock, but after a moment wrapped his arms around her. She leaned against him, striving for touch under the thick layer of his uniform, striving for proximity they'd denied themselves for all this time.

Lips and teeth, a small nip on her lower lip, a kiss at the corner of her jaw. His hands found a resting place in the hollows of her lower back, her arms a home around his neck. Bodies pressed together like the pages of a book, how perfectly they fit.

"Riza," he said softly, "Is this really what you want?"

She nodded. "Do you even have to ask?"

He tightened his arms around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Riza shivered as his lips trailed over her cheek and down her neck, across her shoulder before meeting hers again. She tangled her fingers in his hair like black ink, greedy, to press his mouth harder against hers. His lips pried hers open, met them with a melting softness that trembled at the backs of her knees. She stiffened at the fear of helplessness, vulnerable, but as he nuzzled the crook of her neck he soothed her terror. In the tumult of bird corpses and heavy threats, she could trust him.

His hands drifted up her back to her shoulders, down across her breasts.

"Can I . . ."

"Please."

And he gently lifted the hem of her shirt, but he was too slow. She pulled it off in one smooth motion and tossed it on the floor. He brushed his fingers over the thin fabric of her bra, sending a shiver to the snarled nerves of her core. He fumbled with the clasp, eliciting a laugh from Riza as she reached around and deftly undid the hooks.

A quick capture of her lips by his, then a trail of open-mouthed kisses down her neck and across her breasts before running his tongue over the peaks.

"Sir . . ." she sighed, voice low.

"I think, under the circumstances, you can call me Roy."

"Yes, sir."

He nipped at her jaw again. She realised what she'd just said.

"Sorry. Old habits die hard."

And after all this time, the fierce intensity building inbetween their gaze as he stopped to rest his forehead on hers, just for a moment – it had always been there, something she'd wanted but had unfailingly repressed. Tension and flux, bullets and flames.

He brought his lips to her ear and whispered, so close that she could feel his breath, "I love you, you know."

That was the breaking point, the words that lingered like a ghost in her head. And there was no hesitation as he tugged down her trousers, as she unbuttoned his crisp collar and placed her palm flat on his chest, to feel the heartbeat. She let out a soft cry as she felt his fingers brush the thin cotton barrier between her legs, agonisingly light. The brushstrokes of his hand lingered, and Roy wrapped a hand around her waist to steady her. Burying her face in his neck, he abruptly pushed aside the fabric and ran his fingers across, thumb circling her clitoris. All she knew was blinding light, all she knew was a white-hot pulse coursing through her veins as his fingers gently stroked along her opening, barely skimmed her clitoris with a raw intensity.

He spun her around and pulled her to the floor. Kissed her shoulders, down her back until he reached the scars. He traced the lines of her tattoo with the lightest touch. Dragged his tongue across the blurred contours, the sensitive skin sending a pulse to her core. She felt the star of nerves ache, tingling at the flat of his tongue teasing the flesh of her back. He licked down to the grooves in the curve of her spine, lapped at the destruction between her shoulderblades. This was an apology, a remedy for all that he'd done. He didn't know she had nothing to forgive.

A hand reached between her thighs again, circled her clitoris before dragging along her slit. He slipped a finger inside, then another as he kissed her burns. She began to rock unsteadily against his hand, and he mirrored her movements, sliding his fingers in and then slowly removing them. The intensity between the two soldiers gathered, pooling at Riza's centre and building with snarled ribbons of anguished joy. The faster she moved, the slower he licked at the delicate skin of her scars. She crumbled as he curled his fingers inward, pressing at a spot she didn't even know existed but rendered her immobile in his arms. Wracked with tremors, writhing with the gentle strokes of his fingers, the soft laps of his tongue. The quiet storm broke, and whatever barriers were left between them collapsed.

Riza needed him so much closer.

She turned, and her lips crashed against his, desperate and frenzied. She could feel his erection pressed up against her, and began to rock back and forth against him as they kissed, closer, closer. Sliding to the floor. Towering over her, almost protecting her from the darkness pervasively haunting their lives. Pulling off the last bits of closing and kissing lips and bodies in between. And as he spread her legs apart, as he entered her, he was as desperate as she was; she saw it in his face, in the shadows of his eyes, the set of his jaw. He filled her completely, and she noticed his gentleness even in his dominating need, as if unable to hurt her. She wouldn't do this with a cloistered heart. Not with her general. Slowly and then all at once he thrust into her, letting out a noise between a whisper and a growl that hummed against her skin. She wanted him closer, closer, to be this close to him forever; holding on and never letting go, defending. Protecting. As they moved together, Riza was consumed by a brilliant agony, never close enough or close at all until the pressure shattered and she spasmed uncontrollably, blindly crying out Roy's name. Out of control, for what may have been the first time in her life. And he was there, steady and strong, still moving until he came as well, racked with shudders as he held her body against his.

"I love you. I always have," Riza said as she curled into him, "Roy."

Roy. It had been a long time since his name had fallen from her lips, since her lips had fallen to kiss his. A decade. They could never atone, they could never escape. But at least today they had each other and that would never change.

* * *

SO. A summary for people who don't like smut - Roy and Riza go into hiding at a safe house, confess their undying love, and get it on. Yep. That's it.


	8. cataclysm

**A/N: **Sorry, sorry, sorry for the long wait. I had a long stretch of writer's block coupled with a total lack of idea on how to transition from the...er...events of last chapter. In addition to that, I'm kind of stunned at how quickly this story has grown and a little daunted by the task of writing for an audience large than about twelve. But I do hope I can live up to your expectations and give you the story I love so much. I've begun the bad habit of writing in class, so you can thank my oblivious teachers for this. You can also thank Amy for her spectacular one-word edit, Alex for screaming and crying and being a plot genius, and all the encouragement from my followers here and on tumblr.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Cataclysm**

_cataclysm (n): violent upheaval that brings about a fundamental change._

* * *

After a blissful minute spent lying with her in his arms, Riza disentangled her warm limbs from his and set about collecting her clothes.

"But, Riza, what-"

"Sir, we're in the middle of a crisis. As much as I would like to lie around naked with you, that's just not an option at this point."

"But-"

His protestation was cut short as she tossed his shirt, hitting him in the face. He resigned himself to this, and began to pull his uniform back on, sighing loudly.

"You know I can hear you."

"That's the point."

Half-dressed, Roy pulled her to his chest and placed a kiss on her forehead, making sure she was real and not just some sort of daydream. He'd wanted this for longer than he could remember, as far back as time went, as far back as her fierce eyes glaring at him through the door opened just a crack, and his smile at their determination. Just her, the girl who gave her oxygen to let his flames begin.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Nothing."

Just for a moment they stood, indomitable, before his pocketwatch ticked audibly in the silence and reminded them of their responsibilities.

He watched her as she moved, steady and graceful. He watched her check her handguns and her rifle, noticed an expression of comfort on her face with her weapons in hand. But there was something else, wariness in the turn of her head.

He felt it too.

The fear of losing her, after everything, after the epic of two wars, too many funerals, and more paperwork than he could ever bring himself to finish without her help, was inconceivable. The hardest part to understand was that _it could happen_; it had before. It was circumstance that saved her life, and he powerless to intervene. Riza was bound to him and he to her, by threads of history, loyalty, and whatever sort of convoluted love they had.

"Riza?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You really don't have to call me sir." She bowed her head.

"What did you need?"

"It's just been a long time since I've called you anything but lieutenant."

She glanced up at him, a small smile on her lips, "Roy."

He grinned. Despite the grim layout of the chess piece army, his first name said like _that_, from Riza herself, was enough to brighten the dark.

Still standing, half undressed, he realised he'd been watching her for about five minutes. It was an old habit. Washing the dishes in her father's house, signing his signature for him in blue ink script – only rarely, when he was so behind it would be impossible to finish alone - on the paperwork mountains, playing with Hayate, walking down hallways. Even when she fought, though that was dangerous to watch, lest he find himself absorbed in the movements of her limbs, the swish of her hair, the ringing shots and brilliant blasts that were so integrally her, and forget to fight himself.

He shook his head to clear it. Fully clothed, he arranged the bedrolls, side by side.

"I'll take first watch," Riza volunteered, replacing her guns in their holsters and laying her rifle down next to her.

"That's alright, I can do it."

She opened her mouth to protest, but Roy shot her a stern look and she abruptly closed it.

"Just let me do it, okay?"

"Okay."

She lay down, curled underneath the thin blanket that clung to the outline of her body. Roy thanked god she wasn't wearing her military jacket. Leaning back against the wall where he sat, he watched as her eyelids slowly lost the battle and closed, a millimetre at a time. Almost sure she'd fallen asleep, he undid the clip she'd replaced in her hair and let it spill over her shoulders like sunlight. The strands slipped through his fingers as he gently combed through.

Riza let out a sigh, turned over, and nestled closer. He simply stared down at her, still stunned.

The main reason he'd been so keen to keep watch was this. He just wanted to look at her. To look at her eyes, with short brown lashes resting on her check. To look at her lips, and remember how he'd kissed them and they'd kissed back. To look at her body, curves and hips and strong shoulders, a body for fighting. To look at her, and see through her skin to the Riza other people forgot. She was an unhappy warrior; all she desired was a collective happiness they might never achieve. As long as they soldiered on, futile though it may seem, every step was a protest against worthless battles and meaningless death.

And Riza, she was the storm that brewed in silence before descending on her prey, the lighting strike that set the earth aflame. Called by necessity to the battlefield, it became her home. It became his too. But watching her as she slept, there was nearly peace in the slow movement of her eyes beneath her eyelids, nearly innocence in the tiny curve of a smile.

Goddammit, he really fucking loved her.

An hour passed, and then another, as Roy stroked her hair. He familiarised himself with her face, a changed terrain now he could run his fingers across her cheek and down the line of her jaw. He knew her well.

He didn't know himself, though. Bullets and flames defined the slow dance between the embers of war. Extinguished, and the scale tipped, with Riza falling when his weight couldn't steady the balance.

He couldn't keep the woman he loved safe without letting all she'd fought for go to waste.

A gunshot shattered the calm veneer of the night.

"Riza! Riza, wake up!" Roy nearly yelled, shaking her shoulder roughly.

Clouded with sleep, her eyes eased slowly then snapped open wide.

"That was the warning shot," he told Riza, pulling her to her to her feet. They each snatched up their rifles and ran for the ladder. The first floor had the door. Unfortunately, that door led out directly to the street, where presumably a vicious enemy stalked their pray, the hawk and the flame.

"Sir, your gloves," Riza said, pulling them from her pocket like an offering.

"Riza, I can't!"

But her steely eyes begged him furiously. They said please, I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't need to. And he knew the hard stare masked fear, so great and tender like a briar crown around her heart. It was his eyes and his heart, too.

Without hesitation, he slipped his hands through the sulphurous wrists and pulled the fingers tight. A banging on the door, and Riza shot three bullets through the wood before it splintered at the hinges and crashed down.

"Sir, get behind me!" she called as three figures clad in black entered the room. With menace in his eyes, the tallest man opened his fist to reveal three lead bullets resting on his automail palm. A titanium limb, mythical but not unheard of. Matted hair obscured his eyes, but a shining red scar disfigured the skin across his face. Ammunition tumbled lazily through his fingers and broke the sluggish moment with a crash.

The men charged Riza and Roy, cornered against the wall. Roy gauged the thrust of the flame, the height and the heat this tiny room could withstand. His mind was crystal, refracting points with acute clarity to the axis of his calculations. Controlled anger stunted the fear.

_They would not take her._

The assailants stood too close for a flame attack now, and Roy knew that Riza knew the same. Their tactic, unspoken and understood, was to drive the enemies to the outer reaches of the room, and from the centre, incinerate. Riza aimed and Roy struck bone and sinew with his fists. He knew hand-to-hand combat, as all soldiers were taught, but knew the movement of flames, too. He knew the weaving breadth and flickering limbs landing blows on unprotected skin. And what was he if not fire; that was how he fought.

But as Riza pulled the trigger, Roy noticed uncertainty in the sweep of her arms, and in that faltering residue of sleep their scarred leader snatched her wrist with a sickening crunch. She gasped. Swinging her other arm around, she fired at his chest, but metal on metal clanged again. The realisation struck that their opponents had been employing a strategy of their own: divide and conquer. Subtly they had wrenched apart the General and his Lieutenant. And before she could raise her weapon to his head, he took hold of the gun and crushed it, shaping the metal to the imprint of his closed fist.

Dragged by her wrists to the door as she yelled, "Sir, now might be a good time to use your alchemy!"

Roy, anger to rage and fear to terror, prepared himself for the blaze of ignition as he snapped his fingers for the spark. He reached for the secrets of the array seared across each inch of his brain, but met with blank pages. Rummaging through every thought he'd ever had he searched for the key to the fire. All he could see were the children of the East Tower, blackened and bone. The ruins of the city, scorchmark scars running cavernous rifts through the old glory. Every man and women who had died in the blaze, and the ghosts who haunted Ishval's holy ruins under moonlight.

The savage torment he pretended not to notice and the first night he succumbed to it – the first night of their honoured return, when he gazed out over the city and saw a layered image from the first time he'd walked the streets. And every corpse, every orphan and every widow, every soldier and every priest, came to him that night and screamed. They stole their deathright, their executioner's axe.

His guilt had robbed him of his only armament.

"Sir!" a muffled scream in Riza's voice. Roy saw with horror an arm around her neck, rag held against her nose and mouth, and a sweet smell he recognised vaguely from medical training at the academy.

"Riza!" He snapped furiously, desperately praying for the spark to catch, frantically searching for the formula he'd lived and breathed for more than a decade. "Riza, I can't!"

He watched as her body went limp and her eyes sunk closed.

"RIZA!" he shouted. Again, like some sick nightmare. "No, NO!"

He violently fell upon the enemies blocking his way, fighting with every ounce of strength he had but breaking, screaming, and in his anguish falling to his knees in surrender.


	9. gridlock

**A/N: **Massive thanks to Tristian for editing so wonderfully and thoroughly. This chapter is a bit of an interim, because I needed some Fuery and some comic relief and a break from the torrent of emotional pain writing the last few chapters has unleashed. Do not fear, though - next chapter will have you back to angst and suffering and Royai before you know it.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Gridlock**

_gridlock (n): a situation in which no movement or progress is possible._

* * *

Kain Fuery peered out the window into the burgeoning dawn. His dark eyes flickered across the horizon, searching for signs of trouble, a burst of flame.

"Relax, Fuery," Havoc called lazily from the general's couch.

"Don't you think you should be taking this a little more seriously? There were _death threats_ _and a dead bird_."

"General Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye are the two most vicious soldiers in the entire army; I think they can take care of themselves. Besides, they have Breda on the lookout."

"That's comforting," Fuery replied sarcastically. He wasn't usually this bitter, but today's events had shaken him and shocked his instincts electric. He feared for the lives of his superiors, the two that held their semblance of a family in place despite the odysseys of war that would otherwise have ripped them apart.

He was especially worried for Lieutenant Hawkeye. That hawk with that wound was too malicious, too close to home. She was his first friend in the team, the only one who didn't treat him like a child. And for that, she had his respect and his friendship.

And the General, he was rage and apathy, clever in his uniform of blue, his uniform of idiocy that hid the brilliance beneath it. The silvered title – Flame Alchemist – was more accurate, and more deserved, than anyone besides his team would ever know. They were acquainted with the spark between his fingers, before the charge of the inferno. Losing the man they'd followed for all this time was unthinkable.

"What I want to know is, why are we not sleeping? We're supposed to be keeping up this 'normal' act, so doesn't that mean we should be asleep like 'normal' people?"

"Okay, that is it! You obviously don't get what's going on here. The General and the Lieutenant, they could die! And we're supposed to be their loyal support, and we're stuck here at Command, doing nothing!"

_Several years after the war, Fuery had finally finished his military training and with the rank of Corporal, joined the communications department at East Area Headquarters._

_He sat alone in the mess hall, picking at his food but far more interested in the aviation blueprints a friend in reception had filched for him. Of course, they were copies – he couldn't stand the idea of these brilliant plans never making it into circulation. The ink sketched out the future of flight, the very real possibility of humans taking to the skies, like birds of prey. Now, flying, that was a daydream Fuery could indulge in. The angle of the wings, the speed and upward lift of the wind, and-_

"_Hey, Fuery," came the hiss as a body slid into place on the bench next to him. Lewis Adler, an officer in the communications department, and a friend. "Fuery, I have something I gotta ask you."_

"_What is it?"_

"_I'll tell you on the way," Adler replied as he grabbed Fuery's arm, dragging him across the room and out the door._

"_Wha-what…where are we going? Let go of me!"_

"_So Fuery, me and Rosenberg, we had this idea, see, we thought we should bypass the PA system and make an announcement."_

"…_What kind of announcement?" came the dubious reply._

"_Well, just a message for Colonel Mustang."_

"_Does this have anything to do with the incident last week?"_

"_Uh, uh no, not at all, we just thought it would be funny, you know?"_

_The previous week, Adler and Rosenberg had failed to intercept a message from the remaining troops stationed in Ishval during their shift. The colonel publicly reprimanded them during lunch break, of all times! He said he was too busy to do it anytime else. The young men shook in their boots while the colonel raged about constant vigilance and the importance of focus and dedication to one's post. Complete hypocrisy, of course, as everyone knew the colonel was the biggest slacker in the entire Amestrian army._

_As Lieutenant Hawkeye was kind enough to remind him when he finished his tirade._

"_So, Fuery, man, will you do it?"_

"_Sure," the young corporal sighed reluctantly. Try as he might, he couldn't resist the lure of radio waves, transmissions tangling and receivers humming._

_Rosenberg huddled in a corner of the dimly lit communications room. Cluttered with old equipment, messes of wires, and several large and tattered armchairs that the night shift had snuck in when no one was looking._

"_Hey, I've been trying but I just can't break in, it's too heavily protected."_

"_Let me try," Fuery muttered as he knelt among the tangle of cords. He concentrated on the buzz, twitching dials, fiddling with antennae. He played the radio waves as if they were piano keys, found alignment in the dissonant static. This was not so much a science as an art that had enthralled Fuery since childhood. Summers spent at his grandfather's house, breaking apart the radio to see the miniscule pieces, a puzzle that fascinated his young mind. And it was the same instinct now that broke through._

"_Got it!"_

_Adler checked his watch. "Three minutes, man, that's a record."_

"_Well, it wasn't that hard, you just have to-"_

"_Save it, we've got some business to attend to. Rosenberg, you ready?" _

_Rosenberg paled as Fuery handed him the microphone. Three fingers, two fingers, one finger, point and go. In his lowest, most serious voice, Rosenberg announced:_

"_Attention. We have an urgent message for Colonel Mustang. It reads as follows: the colonel looks damn sexy in a miniskirt and the Fuhrer requests pictures immediately."_

_Fuery clamped his hands over his mouth to suppress his snicker. Adler banged his fist on the floor and didn't even bother to keep his hoots of laughter silent. Rosenberg looked absolutely terrified, but after a moment his face broke into a grin, dissolving into giggles. _

_The door banged open, and silhouetted in the frame stood the seething colonel himself._

"_Which one of you broke into the system?" he questioned. Adler and Rosenberg pointed immediately to Fuery._

"_Thanks, guys," he grumbled._

"_Corporal Fuery, I would like you to come with me."_

"_Yes, sir."_

_Following two steps behind Colonel Mustang, Fuery hung his head dejectedly. The lights of the hallway flickered and the sun set, not a brilliant spectacle but a sombre fade from blue to black. The cold of the floor seemed to seep up through Fuery's boots and settle in his stomach._

_It wasn't fair that he had to take the blame when it wasn't even his idea! They lured him in with transmission overrides and he couldn't be held responsible for that! Wait…why did the colonel know who he was?_

"_I've been keeping an eye on you, Fuery. You show a lot of talent. What you managed today confirmed it. My team could use someone as skilled as you."_

"_But…but aren't you mad, sir?"_

"_Oh yes. I'm furious. But Hawkeye is making me try this thing where I keep my emotions in check. So, do you accept my offer?"_

"_What offer?"_

"_The offer to join my team."_

"_Oh! Uh, yes sir!"_

And faithfully Fuery served, cheerfully, bravely. Quaking inside at some of the horrors they faced, he grew accustomed to the grotesque truths hidden beneath the uniform veneer of the great Amestrian lie. He grew up.

The sun peered over the horizon, tossing beams of yellow through the east window.

"Havoc, I'm going to relieve Breda. I'll send him back so he can get some sleep, and you can start the investigation."

Havoc heaved a sigh, "Okay. Fair point."

"Don't. Fall. Asleep."

Fuery shook his head as he briskly descended the stairs, failing to grasp Havoc's nonchalance. He would come around, though – it was possible sleep deprivation had addled his brain.

The dry air of the desert rested on his skin, swallowing sandpaper with every breath. Uneven bricks made an uneasy path, and the apprehensive sort of drop in the pit of his stomach wondered every awful outcome as he neared the Eastern Tower.

There was a shuffle and scrape around the corner. Slowly and silently, Fuery wrestled his gun from his holster, tugging hard when it stuck. Of all the times for this to happen-

And he saw Breda's red hair emerge as he staggered around the corner, clutching bloody fingers to his stomach.

"Fuery…?"

"Breda? Breda, are you okay?!"

"How…okay…do I look to you?"

"Oh, man…we have to get you back to the infirmary. Did you walk all this way from the safe house?"

"I crawled some of it," Breda rasped, as Fuery wrapped an arm around his shoulder and nearly buckled under the weight. Fuery's mind raced, sick to his stomach as he realised that if Breda was here, injured…the general and the lieutenant were somewhere far worse. Panic rising, threatening to topple his resolve, he swallowed and carried on, a stoic soldier like they all needed him to be. The gun and the gloves, the story would be told, the story of the blood. But not until bandages were laid to rest across Breda's bullet wound, and they were safe.

Stumbling through the rough streets, they reached the back door of the command centre. Fuery twisted the knob and shouldered his way in. Harriet, early as usual, shrieked.

"Oh my, what happened? Oooooooooh that's a lot of blood…"

"I'm sorry, but I need you to get over the blood and see if the night staff in the infirmary are still here." Fuery told her.

Looking horrified, swallowing, gathering resolve, she straightened and replied, "Yes, right away."

Fuery glanced at Breda: drained face, a red splotch blossoming across Amestrian blue. "Maybe you should sit down."

"Good plan."

Once bandaged and laying comfortably – or as comfortable as possible with a bullet hole in your stomach - in a hospital bed, Breda relayed the events of the previous night. Havoc and Fuery gathered round the bed, intent on his account.

"I had been sitting there for a few hours, and it was about four in the morning. I heard some noises that sounded like footsteps, so obviously I pulled out my gun, but I was too slow and they shot me. I could see a tall dirty-looking guy with a big scar across his face and a lady and another man in cloaks walking down the alley, then I guess I passed out. When I came to, I saw them dragging the general and Hawkeye from the house, but the other end of the alley was heavily shadowed and, well, they disappeared…"

"Were they alive?" Fuery pleaded.

"I couldn't tell. I'm really sorry."

"That's…that's okay."

Havoc's eyes were wide.

"I can't believe that happened. I can't believe they got captured, they're the best soldiers in the military. What about General Mustang's flame alchemy? Didn't he try to burn everything to the ground like he usually does?"

"I don't know why, but he didn't. I don't know of any other beside the fact that he swore off flame alchemy, but somehow I didn't think that would apply in a hostage situation."

Havoc hung his head, "I can't believe I didn't realise how bad this is…hey, Fuery, I'm sorry for not taking it seriously last night, that was really stupid."

Looks like Havoc finally got the point that Fuery had been trying to communicate for the last twelve hours. A small relief in the battle of stratagems raging around them, but it was nice to know that they were all on the same page.

Breda settled back and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth in pain. Fuery hated to see his friend incapacitated like this. The wound wasn't fatal, but Breda was the last person you would expect to be wounded. Despite initial appearances, he was a genius in both strategy and warfare, and the fact that the enemy had managed to sneak up on him didn't exactly inspire confidence in the abilities of the unit.

They needed help.

Havoc turned to Fuery and said in a low voice, a shield against eavesdroppers, "I think we should put in a call to Central. The Fuhrer needs to know what's going on. We can't do this just the two of us."

"Agreed."

In Mustang's office, the rotary dial whirred as Havoc spun the number for Central. Attired in discoloured pewter and flaking paint, the old telephone beeped the busy signal for a century before Havoc could ask, "Is this the office of the Fuhrer?"

After several minutes of argument and flattery that Fuery heard through the speakerphone, Havoc finally coerced his way into a conversation with Grumman.

"Fuhrer Grumman, sir. Lieutenant Jean Havoc reporting from Ishvalan Command. We have a situation. Lieutenant Hawkeye and General Mustang have been-"

Static crack, and the line broke and rustled with a ragged voice. "I thought we made it clear that you were not to involve anyone. If it happens again, we won't hesitate to spill their blood, no matter how pure it may be. Keep quiet, and they'll stay alive."

A click and the booming shatter of a bullet on the other end.

The call dropped.

"They blew up the receiver. I…I can't track the call."

"Dammit, Fuery, how do we get them back on our own?"

Fuery's sifted through the information, begging for a hidden loophole anywhere one could be found. Somehow the enemy had hacked his communications network, captured their superior officers, and held all members involved in a demented stalemate of threat and violence. It was unacceptable. And he was going to do something about it.


	10. suffocation

**A/N: **Well. I apologise for the glaring lack of Royai feels in the last few chapters, but there was a plot to advance. Writing is all about balance. So here's your balance. And for anyone who may be concerned about some sort of dumb overused trope with the female character becoming a helpless victim - I don't roll that way. I play by the rules of equivalent exchange.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Suffocation**

_suffocation (n): to overcome or extinguish._

* * *

The heavy beast crouched on her chest, pressure on the shallow breaths she pulled in with the last threads of the wind. Her bones locked up, frozen but for the slow drumming of her heart.

Riza rustled, shifted her limbs a centimetre to feel the solid world against her body, felt another body touching hers. Soft scrapes of linen and the infrastructure of an arm around her. She collected tiny details, shards of glass in the dim haze. She couldn't - she couldn't move like she should, she couldn't think like she always could, a mess, a blur. A weight. The beast.

"…your weakness and affection for the inferior races…will refrain from your immediate extermination due to your bloodlines…your services to incinerate Ishval…consequences…"

And so went the scraps she clutched at like a child with autumn's fallen leaves. Words formed constellations in Riza's cerebral night, cryptic relics, nonsense but for the pinpricks that shone through.

She fought free of the choke. She broke the locks on her eyes as light burst through, foggy but the golden glow enough to calculate her surroundings.

Her head leaned against Roy's chest – she knew from the white fabric of his shirt against her cheek and the circle of his arms, his warmth lending perspective to her shivering skin. The floor was damp. The light radiated from a lantern raised in the shadows. And the speaker wore the uniform of an Amestrian soldier.

Roy's voice rasped and she could feel it vibrate in his lungs, he said, "I won't do it."

Stirring once again, a greater manoeuvre: she raised her head. Blinking, voices melting in her head but more distinct as she found clarity of mind.

"Excellent, Lieutenant, you're awake."

"Who…are you?" Riza demanded with what dignity she could muster, speech slurred and uncertain.

"You could call me a guardian of Amestris. I have realised, over the course of my career, the pitiful, weak, and tolerant cannot be allowed to control this military state. Your general, with his recent promotion, is a candidate for Fuhrer. Your general, with his history in Ishval, should be loyal to Amestris and her well-being only. Your general, with his reconstruction plan, cannot be allowed to proceed. And your collective failure to cooperate has led you both here, where you will remain."

He walked with simple heavy steps to the door, stopped, turned in the frame. "You can call me Major General Cornelius. Perhaps you've heard of me."

And with the click of the lock, they were bathed in black.

"Riza? Riza, please tell me you're alright."

"Y-yes, I'm alright." She tested the bends of her bones, sitting up slowly and leaning against the wall next to him. She tried to quiet the raging terror climbing the steps up her throat, threatening to spill out in a scream. Quiet. Steady, strong. She felt like an eraser had been taken to her memory of the fight and rubbed away half of the writing. But she was quiet, steady, forcing strength. "Tell me everything that's happened."

"They," and Riza caught a hitch in Roy's voice, finger lengths separating their ragged bodies, "they, caught you. You were still half asleep when we fought. They drugged you, I think, with something they used to use in the military." He sucked in a breath. Riza spanned the finger lengths between them, searched for his hand in the dark as he once did for her, and finding it, wrapped her fingers through his like ivy.

"And I tried, I tried so hard to use flame alchemy. But Riza, it's _gone_. I can't picture the array. I can't remember the formulas. Every time I try…" Riza's eyes widened in shock, "…I just see Ishval. I see the city full of the people I've burned. It's gone. I'm sorry."

Her heart stuttered in disbelief. This man had been fire since she told him her secrets and they tangled together in the flames. This man had been power since the infernos of the war. It had begun to rain.

"Roy…"

"I'm so sorry. This is my fault. All of this, it's my fault! They told me if I didn't agree to burn down Ishval, they'd keep you drugged until I do! They've left me no way out. I have to choose between the queen and the people. And I can't save either, not without my alchemy."

Riza leaned over and placed her hand on his cheek, whispered, "We'll survive this. We always do." Kissed him, lightly and then falling deeper. Stole away what pain she could, her duty, his protector.

"Dammit, Riza! They're going to hurt you and there's nothing I can do about it! I would burn Ishval to the ground to save you if I could."

"And I'm here to make sure you don't do that, sir. You can't let your feelings for me interfere with what's right."

"I can't…I can't afford to lose you, not when I finally have you."

Riza nestled into him, "I'm not going anywhere. No matter what, I'll always-"

The creak of the door shone a triangle of yellow light into the black. A man with a scar across his face stepped slowly into the room, carrying a small box in a fingernail-clawed hand.

Recognition illuminated slowly and then all at once like the dawn cracking across her mind.

"You!" Riza spat at him.

"Ah, remember me, do you?"

"I remember putting that scar across your face, if that's what you mean."

"Wait…Riza, how-"

"Remember that night I was late to Madame's bar? It was his fault."

Riza seethed. She'd meant to shoot him square in the head, but the shadows had loomed high and he'd slipped away with all the stealth of a sewer rat, prince of the rubbish of the streets.

Roy leapt up to face the man, burning coals for eyes and a fighting stance in the shape of his skeleton.

"There's no need to fight me. I'm not here for you," said the man, proceeding with lanky ease.

"You attacked Riza alone in a dark alleyway and that is unacceptable."

"It's not like I couldn't take of myself," She told Roy as she stood, gathering her strength for whatever was to come.

"It's still unacceptable."

But Riza swayed, muscles limp from inhaling whatever substance the enemy made her breathe. _The cloth, pressed against her mouth. Heaving, choking, gasping for clean air as the solvent wormed its way into her. And as she felt her head lighten and lighten and float away, that last thing that graced her memory was "Riza, Riza I can't!" _She swayed and stumbled. Roy clutched at her, wrapping an arm around her waist before she hit the floor.

"Ah, looks like the lieutenant is still feeling some aftereffects. She should probably get used to it," the scarred man said, grin laced with malice. "I have another dose, unless you've reconsidered, Mustang."

Riza shuddered at the unshakeable semblance of this threat to another not so long ago, in another underground, another bargain for her. Stomach turning, turmoil wracking her body, pulsing pulsing brilliance beating up through her. Standing, spine straight, a step and then another.

"If you think," she snarled, "for one minute, that I'll let you drug me again, you're dead wrong. I will not be subjected to your pathetic attempts to force my general into submission. I refuse to be used as leverage."

The man darted forward, ripping a gun from his pocket, talons gripping Riza by the arm.

"Move and I'll shoot him."

"You wouldn't. You need him."

"Not all bullet wounds kill, my dear. However, I think it would be significantly more painful for him to sustain an untreated injury like that, perhaps to the knee, hm? than for you to just let me slip this little needle into your arm."

"Riza, don't let him do it," Roy warned, eyes whispering _no, no, no, let me take this bullet for you_. Eyes begging, eyes pleading, eyes wanting to keep her on the surface, lucid, living.

"Go ahead. Give it to me."

"You made the right choice."

But as the man released her arm to access the syringe, she landed a fist on his outstretched hand, sent the firearm scattering and sparking across the floor. Spinning to attack, she felt a prick, like Sleeping Beauty's spindle. She regarded that story with loathing – an irrevocable destiny, an incapacitated princess waiting for rescue; a story of all she abhorred. Even as she felt the slow seep through her arteries, carried on the shoulders of blood itself, she made a desperate resolution to never let fate deter her, never wait for rescue. To fight. Even as she fell, to fight, to fight.

_Out of the velvet mist staggered her father. And there was blood, coating his lips and stuck between the crevices of his teeth as he leered through the shifting clouds. Her mother tottered on bone feet, skin stripped and flesh of ash and apples. They joined hands, they kissed grotesque lips, they stepped in ¾ time to the invisible lullaby. Waltzed, spun baby hurricanes between them with the clockwork of their turns. Immobile Riza, screaming Riza._

_Out of the velvet mist staggered soldiers. Dark skin white hair red eyes red holes in their throats. A legion of restless bodies thirsting not for revenge but an end to eternity. They understood. And while her parents danced a mad dance, their bodies decaying and flaking away, the soldiers marched faster, from a regiment to a swarm rushing Riza down until she choked on them, swallowing whole the blame. And the guilt hung like a ruby in her chest, trapping their souls in the stone as she sacrificed her own. _

_Unbearable, the writhing of the bodies in her heart. Ripping it from her sternum, throwing it to the ground splintering shattering refracting releasing. Riza was left with nothing, neither her soul nor theirs. And the truth ripped her apart._

She jerked up, panting, shaking. Her head spun, the mist from the dream stagnant in her mind and clouding the division of spectral reality.

"Riza."

She heard him through a tunnel speaking her name. Her eyes scraped through the dark to find his face, she loved him, she loved him, he was somewhere in the gloom. Frantically her eyes whirled, looked for any sign of spark in the vacuum of their prison.

"Riza," and strong arms held her. Fingers rustled over the planes of her face, and, "Riza, please tell me you're alright."

She nodded softly.

"You were screaming."

"Just a…nightmare," she managed, her tongue heavy lead. Haze again, the weight, the beast, tugging breaths from the dark.

"This is my fault, Riza. Please, forgive me."

"Why…did you give…up?"

"I needed to be where you were and know that you were alive. And if I'd managed to escape, I would be helpless to help you. I couldn't let that happen."

Riza's voice cracked, simply questioned, "Can you…can you do…any other alchemy?"

"I can. But it's useless. When they brought us in, we walked through a huge secret base under here, filled with Amestrian soldiers and what look to be mercenaries. There's no way we could get out alive," Roy replied desolately.

"We'll…survive," Riza promised, fighting through the haze to send the words from her lips to his ears.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, to her eyelids, to her cheek, to her lips. Riza, tense and trembling, calmed with the steady rhythm of his kisses. Her lungs swelled, filling with the air that had been too dense to swallow, thinning.

Even with the handcuffs of the opiate in the map of her veins, lying on a damp stone bed. Even in hell, even without the fire that bound them both together and set them each apart, as she buried herself in the crook of his neck and the home of his arms she could breathe.

He gathered her closer, circling his fingertips across the arch of her back, soft, sweet, like a melody. Knowing just how to hold her steady, her lighthouse in the fog.

His sudden stop, stiffening, the curve of her spine eliciting a revelation, and, "Riza, your tattoo."


	11. conscience

**A/N:** All I have to says is that I'm back and I'm sorry and I promise a monster hiatus like this will never happen again.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Conscience**

_conscience (n): a **:** the blameworthiness of one's conduct or character._

* * *

_ "Riza? Riza?" Roy called, wandering through the dusty corridors painted with chips and cracks, but without a cobweb in sight. Riza saw to that, her dedication to uphold the structure of this rotting mansion the rivets in the frame. She held it all together, tucked in the corners of the freshly laundered sheets that graced his springboard mattress, resting on the scuffed floor of the otherwise empty guest room. Three wire hangers hung in the closet, one short of what he needed. He didn't mind. It was enough that Master Hawkeye had taken him into his house, agreed to teach him alchemy after seven letters begging in his neatest script. Inkblots scattered the pages, nonetheless. But Roy didn't mind, because Riza, the little bird, the steel rivets, the woman of the house, washed his sheets every Saturday, and once the sun had dried them and they clung snugly to his bed, he would bury his face in the pillowcases and catch a breath of her scent, like sunflowers and baking bread and the spring wind that chased the clouds beyond the hills. Although he didn't know what it meant, didn't know if he should, her smell sent a shiver down his spine and tumbled his stomach in circles. It made him smile. It was enough._

_ But today, her baking bread sunflower spring wind self was nowhere to be found. Saturdays like these, she should be hanging laundry, and he should offer to help but do it all wrong, and she should bossily order him to go sit quietly and not disturb her as he was more of a nuisance than anything and he should really stick to what he knew, and he should try and get her to talk, and she would, only to shyly grow quiet once she realised words were spilling from her mouth like waterfalls. Words about books, words about school, and once, words about loneliness and sorrow before blushing red and busying herself with his pillowcases. That night, as he rested his head on the pillowcase that hid her shame, he resolved to be as good a friend as he could to her, to help, maybe, with the loneliness and sorrow. To make her smile at least once a day, and maybe even laugh. That would be enough._

_ Heavy boots stomped down the stairs and Master Hawkeye walked into the sunny kitchen._

_"Riza is ill. Since she can't go into to town, and you bought me the wrong kind of ink the last time you offered to go in her stead despite my very specific instructions, I have no choice but to go shopping for supplies on my own. I'll be back late. You'll have to take care of yourself for dinner."_

_"Yes sir."_

_ The gristly man ran a hand through his shaggy hair and clomped halfway to the door before turning back to Roy and saying, "Check on her for me, will you? Make sure she's alright."_

_ Roy's eyes widened for a moment at the Master's uncharacteristic kindness towards his daughter, but nodded intently. _

_"I will."_

_Roy knocked softly on her door, bouncing his knuckles twice on the splintery wood. _

_"Riza?"_

_"Come in," she said quietly, the response sneaking through the crack at the bottom of the door and floating up to his ears. He pushed the door open. _

_ Riza lay on her stomach on top of the patchwork quilt, wrinkled from the weight of her body. _

_"Mr. Mustang? Did you need something?"_

_"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Roy?"_

_"Father told me to call you Mr. Mustang."_

_"And I'm telling you to call me Roy," he grinned cheekily. A small smile tugged at her lips, and she buried her face in the bedsheets to hid her little happiness. Mission accomplished. _

_"Anyway, did you need something?" she asked, moving to stand. As she sat up, she gasped sharply and winced in pain, squeezing her eyes shut but failing to imprison the single salty tear that escaped from between her eyelids. It hung on her lashes before a quick hand brushed it away._

_"Are you okay?"_

_"Y-yes...just not feeling very well today, that's all. But if you need something - "_

_"No! I mean, just take it easy," Roy told her, hoping she didn't notice the fear and the worry in his exclamation. He did try to conceal how much he cared for Riza, from himself, from her. He didn't know what it meant, burying his face in her smell on the pillowcase, but it was doom approaching should he let his heart run away with love for her. At least for now, but sometimes in a half sleep haze he imagined a future with her, a golden ring on a slender finger and a kiss lingering on his lips as he dressed in military uniform and left for work each morning. When he woke, he remembered nothing of his fantasies, only a bittersweet hope and her baking bread sunflower spring wind ghost. "I just came to check in on you and make sure you were okay. Do you need anything?"_

_"No, I'm fine, thank you," Riza answered between the spaces of her gritted teeth, slowly lying back down. Roy noticed her shirt clinging to her back, dotted with tiny speckles of red blood. His stomach churned, wondering what kind of awful her father had done to her this time. In the past, kindness only came from him after the guilt of abuse set in. And his uncharacteristic request to make sure Riza was alright was certainly indicative of guilt. _

_ She never liked to talk about it, and every time he brought the subject of the bruises up she shied away, turning her shoulders from the sun and finding an excuse to let her feet carry her somewhere far away. So today, Roy wouldn't mention the tiny speckles of red blood soaking through the white linen of her shirt. But today, he would refuse to let her be somewhere far away. Today, he would insist that he stay._

_ He pulled the chair out from under her desk, spun it around to face the bed, and sat down lazily, resting comfortably in the wooden framework._

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Keeping you company. It's no fun being ill in bed alone, and it's no fun sitting in an empty house without a friend. This is a win-win situation right here."_

_Riza groaned. Roy chuckled. "Fine, you can stay."_

_"Do you have any books?"_

_"They're all in the chest in the corner."_

_ Roy got up and rummaged through the chest, searching for some interesting words or at least something with a few pictures. Once he had chosen a compromise with large type and a few sketches at the head of the chapter titles, he began reading aloud the story of a prisoner nineteen years in jail for the theft of a loaf of bread, a story which blossomed into the tale of a revolution. Riza's eyes widened as he began to read, his voice filling the corners of her small room, but soon she seemed to hang on every punctuation mark, engrossed in the bloody story only to reemerge from the depths of fiction each time Roy mispronounced a complicated word. He felt his face grow hot as he stumbled over the letters, her scathing corrections leaving him chastised and slightly wiser for the next one. Nonchalance and rolled eyes accompanied each small lesson in spelling and grammar, but he secretly adored the bossy tone in her velvet voice, the way she didn't seem afraid to scold him. Amusing and comforting, he read until dark, her frustration and his protestation eventually overpowering the elaborate epic of the novel, their bickering and conversation echoing out her window and ricocheting off the stars._

Through a tiny window the rosy dawn cast it's meagre light into the dungeon. Judging by Roy's calculations, only at dawn would the light be bright enough to see by as the sun shone directly in through the opening. He would have less than an hour each day to study the tattoo, to relearn flame alchemy and save them both. He shook Riza gently, as she slept curled in his lap.

Through the night she screamed and trembled through the sedative, haunted by the memory of war. She'd told him in lucid instants of her nightmares and he kissed them away, if only for five minutes she was sane.

"Riza, you need to wake up. We don't have a lot of time." She stirred and blinked blearily, barely recognising his face and brow creasing in confusion. It hurt that some moments the medicine robbed her memories of him. He kissed her forehead and prayed she would remember.

"Sir?"

"Riza, I need to study your tattoo again. Remember?"

"Barely...but yes. You need to get your flame alchemy back," she recalled, dredging up midnight from the depths of her memory. He could see the effort it took for her to know these simple things and hold them still in her mind. It hurt him. It was his fault.

He was an idiot! The woman he loved, the only thing tethering him to goodness and to sanity, could barely remember who he was. His eyes, his heart, his oxygen, she was fading and by the hand of his own weak ghosts couldn't save her. If he was stronger, less pathetic, he wouldn't let the past rob him of his future. But as it were, he was guilty of another crime today. He had endangered her with his own selfish desires to protect her on his own, and his idiocy and pride, his stubborness, his arrogance is at fault for the chemicals running through her veins and hurting her. He was always hurting her, burning her as he attempted futilely to protect her from his own demons. If he had never met her, she would be alright. But if he had never met her, he wouldn't be. They all say he's selfless, and maybe they're right, in all aspects but Riza Hawkeye. In that one cloistered category, he is as greedy and selfish as a deadly sin.

They offered him a choice, his love or his country; Roy and Riza both knew their duties, they both knew that sacrifice loomed imminent, for both of them, forever. They both knew that happiness couldn't last, not with their luck, not with their history.

"Do you feel alright? Can you sit up?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Riza replied, pulling off her shirt to bare her back to him. In the midst of his guilt and burning anger, it was a comfort to know that he was the only one she trusted enough to turn her back to, that he was the only one who saw her sleep.

History, well, it was painted on her back, their nostalgic aching past and the whisper of their first kiss, she hungover and he afraid. The tattoo seemed familiar, but indecipherable, the code hiding fire in the sealed lips that spoke a secret language. He would have to learn it all again.

Running a finger down the ridges of her spine, he asked, "Do you remember when I read to you, the day that your father did this to you?"

"I do. I remember that."

"I think that was when I started to fall in love with you, really." Riza laughed softly.

"Really now."

"Yeah. It was because you were supposed to be doing laundry, and you weren't, and that made you angry. I could tell. But then as soon as I started reading you forgot about being angry about not doing laundry and started being angry that I couldn't pronounce any of the words right."

"That was when the war was just starting. I was sixteen. I was scared for you."

"And then you decided that it would be a good idea to become a soldier to protect me yourself because no one else could do a good enough job, right?" Roy teased as he studied the first line of Latin inked into her skin.

"And because I believed in you, you complete idiot of an idealist, and I wanted to help change Amestris. Everything you used to tell me, I believed in it."

As Roy continued to study the tattoo, days passed and drugged sleep brought night terrors, drugged and wakeful hours lost precious memories for every small and willing injection for the good of Ishval. Roy admired Riza's sacrifice of her own strength for the preservation of this ill-fated nation, no matter how much it drove daggers into his heart as he watched her slip away.

"Riza? Riza, wake up, it's dawn."

"Hmm...no...sleep."

"No, you need to open your eyes. Look at me, godammit, look at me, Riza!" But as she curled into herself, nestling back into the convoluted dark of her drugged haze, it became harder and harder to reach her. His voice and his kisses and his whispered histories meant nothing to her, not anymore. As she lay unconscious, he struggled to memorise the code on her back, learned it all but for the crucial secrets that burned flesh hid. He was trapped in a damp dungeon, trapped in the dark, trapped alone and too incompetent to save her, to save this world.

Roy began to burrow into the depths of his own mind, searching for the answers, little smoke and tricky shadows slipping through his fingers and off the tip of his tongue before he could see truth of it. The knowledge of his alchemy shimmered just beyond his reach, locked by guilt and blame and shame and hatred beyond the subconscious gates.

Riza rustled in her sleep and her eyes flew open, wide and on fire like they should be, like they were before the horror of this sickening mystery.

"Roy!"

"Riza? Do you remember me?"

"Of course I remember you, sir."

He was happy enough for this moment of clarity that he forgave her instinctive formality. He was happy, and he kissed her in the dimness, her lips warm. He was scared, and he kissed her with a fierce intensity that he hoped would help her remember, tonight, tomorrow, forever, who they were and all they needed to be, to save this broken world and in doing so, maybe save their broken selves.

"Please, try not to forget. I need you. Amestris needs you. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Besides, who else is going to protect you if I don't?"

"I hate to break it to you, but you're not really in a fit state to do that right now."

"I think you underestimate me," Riza retorted.

"You're probably right."

"How long have I been out?"

"About three days. I've almost finished deciphering the tattoo, but..." Roy trailed off, uncertain.

"But what?"

"But nothing. I'm almost there."

Riza narrowed her eyes, "What is it?" she demanded.

"It's nothing! You're awake, and I don't know how long that's going to last, so I just want you to keep me company. I just want you to stay awake and remember for as long as you can."

"I'm not letting this go."

"Fine. It's the parts I..." he winced, "the parts I burned. They're somewhere in my head but I can't exactly remember. There's only one solution I can think of, and that's reconstructing your back."

Her eyes widened. "Is that possible?"

"I don't know. But my theory is, if the code for the burned parts of the tattoo are somewhere in my subconscious, then if I use a transmutation to reconstruct your tattoo it should work. But I don't know what kind of effect it's going to have on you; I don't know how much it will hurt."

"Whatever it is, I can handle it. We can't rot away in this dungeon forever without any idea what's happening up top. We have a duty to fulfill," Riza said with conviction, before taking his hand in hers and squeezing it tight. And with hands clasped and this small moment of reality, there flickered in Roy's lungs a flame of hope, fueled by the oxygen of every breath, the smell of baking bread, sunflowers, and spring wind.


	12. recollection

**A/N: **Sorry it's been a little while, getting back into school has been a bit of a challenge, but I hope to be posting once a week like I used to! Thank you all for sticking with me, you're fantastic.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Recollection**

_recollection (n.): a memory_

* * *

Fuhrer Grumman gripped the carved arms of his chair with wrinkled hands to stop the trembling. He clutched at the varnish to steady the fear of the static message spat from a gruff mouth on the end of the phone line. The names Mustang and Hawkeye rang in his ears like bells tolling the hour of an execution.

_"I thought we made it clear that you were not to involve anyone. If it happens again, we won't hesitate to spill their blood, no matter how pure it may be. Keep quiet, and they'll stay alive."_

The Fuhrer's confusion turned to understanding as soggy memories clambered to the forefront of his mind. The puzzle of this great and terrible fear began to take shape in the sunny afternoon. The astringent odour of furniture polish permeated the warm study, not yet made into a comfortable mess. And the pieces began to fit together, one by one, as still and faded images slowly began to move.

_**Central Command, 1880**_

"_Major Grumman, join us in the mess hall for lunch? There's something we have to talk to you about."_

"_Borowitz! Can't you see I'm with a lady?"_

"_I can see that that lady is ignoring you," Grumman's burly friend said with a grin. "Maybe she'd flirt with you if you shaved."_

"_This moustache is a symbol of my dashing bravery and manliness," Grumman stated loudly enough so everyone in the hallway could hear his protestation._

"_It looks like someone scribbled on your face with a fountain pen in your sleep," Borowitz retorted to raucous laughter echoing on the cold tile floors. "I'll save you a seat."_

"_Alright, alright!"_

_ Grumman thoughtfully stroked his small moustache and considered the magnificent potential of his facial hair. He knew that imposing facial hair commanded respect, and his eccentricity needed a balancing factor if he was ever to advance rank. The clock ticked to twelve, and he made his way through blue-coated crowds to the far corner of the mess hall, where Borowitz's broad shoulders shrugged next to an empty seat. _

"_Excellent. Quiche. Absolutely delicious," he remarked, sliding into the vacant chair and glancing around at his lunchtime companions. They exchanged conspiratorial glances, setting Grumman and his strategies uneasy. _

"_We have a proposition for you, Grumman," a man with sleek black hair and the nose of a bird of prey leaned forward with a hard glint in his grey eyes. "Sanctimonia would appreciate your membership."_

_ Grumman recognised the speaker as 1__st__ Lieutenant Doyle Cornelius, whose dark charisma carved paths through the corridor commotions, turned ruckus to stone, to silence. Grumman never understood the obeisance to his steely glare. But Sanctimonia, the whispered word in barracks beds, the military myth, now posed an opportunity for fraternity. For status. For commanding the respect his facial hair was failing to bring him._

"_What exactly does Sanctimonia do?"_

"_Sanctimonia," Cornelius said with soft malice on hissing in the spaces between his teeth, "is a group of devoted soldiers with complete loyalty to Amestris, our homeland. We believe that Amestris should be for us, the true citizens of this great state, and that the other races who dirty our blood should be exterminated before they drag Amestris down into their impoverished desert gutter."_

"_You're talking about Ishval."_

"_Exactly."_

"_How many are you?"_

"_Approximately 1,000, mostly foot soldiers but some officers and important officials. We work to quietly change this country for the better."_

"_Manipulate behind closed doors, I presume?"_

"_Is there a problem with that? We work for the greater good."_

"_That depends on your definition of problem, and your definition of good."_

"_Then I take you won't be joining us."_

"_If you'll excuse me, I have other business elsewhere. I appreciate your . . . offer, but I have to decline. For the greater good."_

_ As Grumman turned his back to the table, a silent iceberg in the sea of warm chatter after his rejection, he considered his split second decision to refuse. His response was instinct and ingrained knowledge, but his thoughts stomped the dust until he didn't know what was right or wrong and what path it was that he should follow. He firmly believed in the absence of low roads or high roads, just roads, roads in the dust. Was it right to refuse when his admittance could have bought him all the power he desires? But in what universe is it right to hate for culture or for race? And was it really winning if you cheated your way, behind closed doors, was it winning if your own good was greater than the good of all else? And if all else fails, should self-preservation prevail?_

_ Though he repressed the tiny voice of morality that piped up from time to time, a squeaky reminder that good and evil were real, he heard it yell with all its small might against Sanctimonia. The name itself was a manifesto, the sacred and pure, pale men with their own idea of justice that involved crushing every human being that didn't meet their holy Germanic standard. And though Grumman repressed that tiny voice in favour of self-interest, it was there, nonetheless, and it whispered in his ear of good and evil. And it whispered in his ear that heaven was boring, and hell singed the skin, and why not live on Earth for all its flaws; find greatness not for God or Satan, but do what is necessary for citizen's sake, and your own. For all that Grumman deceived himself with proclamations of selfish ambition, there was a vision simmering behind his wily eyes, a vision where he was Fuhrer (surrounded by a multitude of attractive women) and Amestris found its way out of war and into an age of gold coins and blue skies. For all the proclamations of selfish ambition, there was neither good nor bad, just the truth and the knowledge of this country's fate without an intervention._

_ This country didn't need another puppet warrior king, and if he was to repair the only thing he owed allegiance to anymore, he needed to do it on his own. With the power of his moustache and the cunning of a fox, he knew that he could triumph on his own. Sanctimonia, for all its appeal to selfish ambition, would taint the prize and never let him rise so high anyway. At least, those were the excuses he concocted to elude any subconscious accusation of honour. Major Grumman would never admit to the kind heart beneath the goals and eccentricities, but it beat there, fighting for good, nonetheless._

_**Fuhrer's Office, 9:13, Summer 1915**_

"_Colonel Mustang, good to see you! I've heard rumours about your plans for Ishval. You've come here looking for a transfer approval to the East, eh?"_

"_H-how do you know that?! That was supposed to be top secret!" The colonel shouted._

"_Calm down, you can't honestly expect to hide anything from me. I am the Fuhrer, after all. I'm basically an all-powerful god!"_

"_Isn't the whole point that Fuhrers are not all-powerful gods anymore?" Mustang replied expressionlessly, heaving a sigh._

"_You're no fun. You used to be a lot more carefree, you know that?"_

"_You try losing your best friend to a homunculus, overthrowing the government, having your eyesight taken away, and watching helpless as the person-" Mustang stopped abruptly._

"_Yesssssssss?" Grumman hinted with a sly grin._

"_Nevermind."_

"_Of course I'll transfer you and your very loyal subordinates to the east if you desire. Send me a draft of your reconstruction plans so I can approve them before you go."_

"_Thank you very much, sir. There's something else . . . Lieutenant Hawkeye ran into some trouble with a man a few nights ago. He tried to attack her in a dark alley. Of course, she beat him to a pulp, but I'm still concerned about this situation considering that he targeted her to deliver a message to me," he said, worry creasing his brow._

"_Why don't you just propose to my granddaughter already, Colonel? You're practically a married couple, and it would certainly make my life easier."_

"_W-w-what? No, no sir, I think you misunderstand-" Colonel Mustang stammered, breaking his cool façade as his eyes widened in surprise, face flushed red. Grumman's suspicions about the colonel's ill-concealed feelings were thus confirmed, and the old man smiled to himself in satisfaction. He knew. He always had, since he first saw the tender look in the colonel's eyes as Riza saluted him, a softness in the black glare. Mustang pulled himself together, tugging at his uniform jacket until it hung straight, and stated stonily, "Even if I did care about the lieutenant in that way, which I don't, fraternisation is prohibited."_

"_Oh pish posh, I wouldn't tell anyone. Now, what was the message this attacker relayed?"_

"_That's not important, sir. The main point is that I think the police should be made aware of this man, who now has a scar running across his face courtesy of the lieutenant." As an addendum, the colonel added, "He may be a menace to the public too, of course."_

"_Oh, of course," Grumman chuckled to himself. "Alright, I'll get my assistant to send a memo to police headquarters."_

"_Thank you sir."_

_**Fuhrer's Office, 14:37, Summer 1915**_

"_Hello, grandfather, sir."_

"_Riza, my dear! Come to visit, hm?"_

"_No. I'm concerned for Colonel Mustang's safety."_

"_And he's concerned with yours," Grumman said quietly, shaking his head with subdued glee. _

"_What was that?" Riza's head snapped around and her eyes narrowed, but Grumman readjusted his expression to one of thoughtful concern and indicated for her to continue._

"_I received a message cautioning the colonel, citing his ambition as a reason for possible enmity and attacks. I don't think he realises the gravity of the situation, sir, and I wondered if you might be willing to discuss it with him."_

"_Why don't you discuss it with him?"_

"_As a subordinate…it's…it's not my place," she stated softly, looking at the ground._

"_You're practically a married couple, I don't see why it would be an issue."_

"_Grandfather! That is inappropriate!" But despite her protestations, her cheeks turned pink and a miniscule smile drew up the corners of her lips. Excellent. Confirmation from both parties involved. He would have to urge Team Mustang to interfere if they didn't get their act together on their own. Her reluctance to speak to the colonel about the message, Grumman knew, was born from a fear of discovery, and a fear of affection. A fear of him knowing how much she cares, and how much he matters. A fear of revelation, to herself and to the colonel, of this strange sort of love._

"_Sorry, my dear. Sorry, sorry. I'll talk to him."_

"_Thank you."_

Grumman, gnarled hands clutching the carved arms of his chair, pondered the past amid dust motes in the sun. He came to the realisation that only Sanctimonia, the cult so obsessed with race, would have the power and the strategy to capture the Flame Alchemist and the Hawk's Eye. It must have been Sanctimonia who sent the message to the colonel, and it must be Doyle Cornelius, now a general on extended leave due to a spinal cord injury, in charge. A spinal cord injury, Grumman mused, seemed fairly easy to fake.

He thought all of Sanctimonia's racist acolytes had disappeared after the genocide of Ishval, after stirring up wartime, after inciting so much hatred and so many citizens against a people who had done nothing wrong. But still they lurked under the trodden roads, dust shaken down on their heads, and they wanted to finish what they started, that and revenge. He recognised the gruff voice on the end of the line as an aged Borowitz, his friend from the early days. Sadness welled inside him as he realised his old comrades held captive the future he strove so hard against them to create. It was a strange anomaly that friends became enemies in a time of peace.

But Grumman knew that without Mustang, peace couldn't last, and without Riza, Mustang wouldn't last. And so these two young revolutionaries, the people who broke this country down from the inside only to rise from the rubble with the promise of a new dawn, they must be freed. He had no doubt that they were already concocting a plan of escape, but with his knowledge of Sanctimonia, he knew that help needed to be sent.

Ten twirls of the dial, ring, ring, "Hello, are Major Miles and Vato Falman available? . . . No, I won't hold, I'm the Fuhrer of Amestris."


	13. reconstruction

**A/N: **I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack! And I'll be posting one chapter a week unless something crazy like the apocalypse gets in my way. Reviews and favourites make this worth it, and I'd really appreciate both. Thanks for sticking with me, you guys.

* * *

**Chapter 13: Reconstruction**

_reconstruction (n): the process of rebuilding what has been damaged or destroyed._

* * *

Roy opened his eyes to the perpetual darkness, punctuated only by a sliver of light pouring in through the tiny window far above their heads. They sat under the single sunbeam, just an in or so wide, while Roy studied the minutiae of her red-ink secrets. He'd learned all he could about Riza's tattoo under that ghostly light, and today he would attempt to lasso whatever still remained in his subconscious and build it back bit by bit onto his lieutenant's scarred spine. The parts he'd burned, they must still exist somewhere! And if he could reconstruct her tattoo so he could see it in full, then he could understand. He was so close, torturously near to remembering. He wished he could. Just to save his Riza the pain of it, and the blame that she felt would lie on her.

Stirring on the damp ground, Roy stood and felt his way around the room, hoping some food had been shoved through the small locked window in the door. Stale bread, and a canteen of water. At least their captors were thoughtful enough to give them clean water. Roy chuckled to himself at this. Stockholm syndrome, indeed.

He could never feel any kindness for General Cornelius, the scarred man, or those countless mercenaries they could hear shouting and shooting and drunkenly singing, somewhere above the depths of their prison. Not for what they'd done to him, stealing away his plans to build a new alliance and begin to fix his shattered nation. And not for what they'd done to Riza, drugging her each day until she could barely remember who she was anymore. Even now, perhaps weeks since their capture - time lost meaning in the dark – the scarred man would enter the cavern with a lamp in one hand, a gun in the other, and a syringe in his pocket. Riza struggled, but Roy wondered if she even knew what she was fighting. But one final comfort in their cold prison, the will to fight, hadn't left them yet.

He carried the meagre breakfast to where he supposed Riza lay sleeping, but overestimated the distance and tripped over her unconscious body.

"Ow."

"Sorry."

"It's…it's okay," she murmured. He sat down beside her and helped her sit up. Thank god she was lucid today.

"They gave us some breakfast today, the bastards," Roy commented cheerfully, hoping that somewhere in the murk, she smiled.

A key clicked in the heavy lock on their door, and it swung open, banging closed an instant later. In the shadowed lamplight, it was not the scarred man who approached, and Roy rather missed the little satisfaction he got from seeing that red welt torn across his cheek by Riza's high heel. Damn, she had looked sexy that night. And beautiful. And strong. And charmingly aloof among the astounded members of Team Mustang. Roy wondered how shabbily he hid his astonishment that night. He couldn't wait to see her in the light again, strong, aloof. He would be astonished all over again.

Because this was like being blind once more, and he was almost mad with the dark. All he'd wanted was a just future, an unbroken Amestris, an age of understanding. And each time he tried, his vision was struck down by some authority who held their own desires above the greater good. And the greater good held the highest importance in Roy's heart. It was the only thing that mattered, in the end. Not love, not friendship, not money or power or glory, because all of that fades. But a legacy, left for the good of the people, can change the world.

And as General Cornelius approached, Roy felt the hand of his partner in good, perhaps the only person left alive who understood. She squeezed his hand as hard as she could , but her grip was weak and clammy. Roy desperately fought the urge to get up and strangle the General, under whose orders the destruction of his dear subordinate had taken place.

"Have you decided to set us free?" Roy spat at Cornelius's feet.

"Oh, no, Brigadier General Mustang," the man laughed, "Only to present my offer once again. Burn Ishval, or we drug her until she can't remember her own name. Or yours."

"My name is Riza Hawkeye, and if you think that I'll ever forget that, you're wrong. And his name is Roy Mustang, and if you think it's even _possible _for me to forget that, you obviously have no idea what you're dealing with," Riza spoke quietly, but with a conviction Roy didn't know she still possessed.

"I'm not burning down this city. There are people here, people no different from me. Why should they die because their god has a different name, and their skin is a different colour? It's still God, and it's still skin, and I will die before I destroy any more innocent lives."

"Well, of course, we could just do it ourselves, you know. We thought it had a nice symmetry, the Hero of Ishval finishing what he started. Sanctimonia appreciates meaningful destruction."

Sanctimonia…the word sounded familiar, like something he'd heard on the other side of a thin wall, or skimmed over in a dusty book.

"Sanctimonia?" Roy asked.

"Oh, you've never heard of us? We're…an organisation, of sorts, comprising of the most accomplished and promising officers of the military. We believe in the purity of Amestris, a country of one perfect race, mastering the others. And, of course, Ishvalans do not fall into that category. So, we have taken it upon ourselves to see to the cleansing of this magnificent nation."

"What makes this nation magnificent is the differences between people, and their ability to work together despite that," Riza said, "And General Mustang knows that. He'll never give up on this country for my sake."

She didn't know how dangerously close Roy was to doing just that. He might have burned down all of Ishval to save her, if he had any inkling of flame alchemy left. But then again, if he could use flame alchemy, he would have had both of them out of their prison before Cornelius even knew what had happened, and this wouldn't be an issue in the first place.

But Riza had said so before, and now she said so again, that fighting for the greater good was the greatest good they could do, and her job was to make sure Roy followed that upward road until the end. Roy would be grateful to her until the very end.

"He will, in time. Don't you worry. It might just take a little more…" he flashed a wicked, shadowy grin and pulled out a curved dagger, "…convincing."

"Don't you dare," Roy growled, fire in his eyes. He moved protectively in front of Riza as Cornelius approached.

"Come on, now, this could all be over if you just agree to do what I say."

"No."

Roy lunged at Cornelius, punching him squarely in the face. Cornelius attempted to stab with the dagger, but Roy caught his wrist and halted his arm inches from his face. He yanked Cornelius forward so their faces were mere inches apart. In the golden flickers of the lamp, Roy glared fiercely into the steely eyes of his opponent.

"If you try and hurt her again, if you try and hurt this country again, I will see to it that you die as painfully as possible."

"And how do you expect to do that locked up underground, Mustang?"

"Just you wait and see."

Cornelius ripped himself free from Roy's iron grip and backed towards the door, still leering. "I'll let you and your woman off this time, Mustang, for that break in the monotony. But don't expect such lenience next time." The leering general slammed the door behind him. He left the lantern. It glowed softly, lighting Riza's face, shadows under her hollow eyes and collarbones.

"It's nice to really see your face again," Riza said quietly.

"And yours," Roy replied. He sat down beside her. She turned to him, leaned her warm body against his chest. Riza began to trace the contours of his face. The line of his jaw, the curve of his temple, the arch of his forehead – he shivered at the soft fingertips on his dirty skin.

"What I wouldn't give for a bath," he grumbled.

"What I wouldn't give for a hairbrush."

Roy stroked her golden hair. It was so tangled he could no longer run his hands through it as he had grown so fond of doing. This little detail tipped the balance, and he was struck with an overwhelming determination to break free. If for nothing else but to get Riza a hairbrush.

"Come on. We have the lamp, and we have a duty to Amestris, and we have to get you a hairbrush. We should do it now, this is the best chance we have."

Roy felt a pang in his chest at the bewildered look on her face. Her hand fell limply to her side. Not now. Please, couldn't she fight the shadowy grasp of the drugs, couldn't she fight for a little longer?

"Riza, do you know where you are?" he asked quickly, harshly. "Riza, say something to me. Tell me the name of your dog."

"I-I don't…" this was not his Riza, eyes like saucers and wide with fear.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Roy Mustang," she whispered.

"And who are you?"

She shook her head dumbly. He grabbed her by the shoulders and said, "Yes, you do. You're Riza Hawkeye, my first lieutenant, probably the greatest sniper in Amestrian history, and my best friend. And goddammit you are going to remember that!"

Her face was clouded, uncertain, as he willed her blood to hold its ground against the chemicals inside her. Her eyes unfocused and refocused and unfocused again. She collapsed with a thud.

"Riza!"

She stirred weakly, awake but lost in sea mist and smoke. And as much as Roy couldn't bear to do this, he lay Riza on her side and bared her back to transmute the scars into treacherous secrets. As he pulled off her shirt, she let out a yelp. She fought against his arms, confused and weak but still a warrior. He hated this. He hated himself. He hated Cornelius. He hated Sanctimonia, whatever the hell it was, for forcing him into a situation that ended like this. Riza scratched, bit, punched, and kicked as Roy struggled to take her shirt off.

"Riza, please, listen to me, I'm not trying to hurt you. Please, I need to see your back; I need to do that to get us out of here. Please!" he begged, failing to notice the tears falling from his eyes. They landed on her cheek, his silver tears, and she began to calm. Still reluctant, still afraid – Roy could tell by the way she shook with tremors – she allowed him to pull her shirt up over her head. She clasped the wad of black material protectively to her chest.

"Can you sit up?"

She nodded, and did so with his help. Roy took a deep breath. He didn't know exactly how this was going to go. He'd never heard of a case where some aspect of a person's body was reconstructed. He didn't even know if it was possible. He didn't even know what he was reconstructing at all, except for an inkling stored somewhere deep in his subconscious. But he had to try, he had to get Riza to safety or she risked losing herself in that sea mist forever.

"This might hurt you. I don't know. And I'm sorry," he told her. Roy placed both of his hands on her back. He could feel her erratic heartbeat through his palms. Instinctively following the patterns carved into his brain by countless transmutations, it was almost an easy thing to do. Power flowed through his hands and lit up Riza's tattoo. He watched as the patterns began ink themselves in, as scar tissue erased.

Riza screamed, a haunting, tearing, monster of a noise soaring from her throat and piercing Roy's ears. She screamed, and she didn't stop screaming, as blue light blared from the symbol on her back and rebuilt everything she hated onto her own skin. Roy pulled his hands away, but it was too late to stop the transmutation. Her back arched and she threw back her head, echoing that monster noise, the worst thing Roy had ever heard.

The blue light dimmed and the screams faded to scratching whimpers. Riza curled in on herself, shivering. Roy felt his skin crawl with shame for his actions. Try as he might to justify them with necessity, he had hurt Riza, again. He just couldn't seem to stop hurting her, incessantly dragging her down into his own private hell and torturing her with the duties she still fulfilled even then. Roy made himself sick. Everyone who grew close to him ended up for the worse. But never did he expect such misery to come to Riza by his own hands again.

"I'm sorry."

He reached out a hand to touch Riza's shoulder. After a moment, she rasped out quietly, "My dog's name is Black Hayate, and I am definitely the greatest sniper in Amestrian history, so don't make that mistake again."

Roy grinned. "Thank god," he sighed in relief.

"One question, sir…Did it work?"


	14. entente

**A/N: **Ugh, I had all these grand plans to update once a week. I guess we all saw how that turned out. But I do want to get back on track, so that's a thing. Also, I'm going to try and get back to responding to reviews, which I'm really bad at but I have a resolution to respond to all of my reviews because I do really appreciate them so much.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Entente**

_entente (n.): friendly alliance or informal understanding._

* * *

Major Miles slipped silently off the sparsely populated train, Officer Falman at his heels. It had been a long time since Miles had seen the faded dust of the desert. Once as a child his family brought him on a visit, but other than that he knew little of his homeland. He nodded in greeting to the few civilians they passed in the station. Dressed inconspicuously in streetclothes, the two soldiers walked silently abreast in the direction of the looming headquarters. Upon reaching the building, they entered a small side door.

The major had been sent from his position in Briggs, working to keep Drachma at bay, for two reasons. The first being his loyalty to Fuhrer Grumman's regime, bested only by his loyalty to General Armstrong, and the second being his Ishvalan descendence, presumably making him a viable mediator between the citizens and the soldiers.

"Thank god you're here," Fuery squeaked in relief. Havoc smoked his perpetual cigarette, attempting a calm, collected façade and failing spectacularly. Breda sat stiffly, clearly favouring his right side due to the injury Miles deduced from his movements.

"Officer Falman," Havoc said, and reached out to shake his hand. "And Major Miles. Thanks for making it all the way out here to help us. But we don't even know, has anyone told you the circumstances?"

"Information's been a little vague, to say the least. All we know is that Brigadier General Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye are in some kind of trouble, and that only because they didn't speak to us on the phone when we spoke to make arrangements."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. We don't really want anyone unwanted finding out the details, or else the other side…" Havoc trailed off, worry creasing his brow, "Well, anyway, we'll tell you what the situation has been for the last three weeks."

The soldiers all sat at a small table in a small room of the eerily empty headquarters. Miles only saw a few secretaries scurrying up and down the halls. Lieutenant Havoc explained as best he could the events of the kidnapping, the threat to Ishval, and the danger that General Mustang and his lieutenant were in. It seemed to Miles that the greatest concern was not saving the captives, but rather pursuing the problem to its roots before not only Ishval, but the entirety of Amestris, was aflame with prejudice once more.

"Who exactly are the people who took them?"

"We…we don't know," Fuery replied lamely. "We've been trying, we really have, it's just that, well, we're the only military here. We were told that if we brought in anyone to help us…they didn't specify, but it didn't seem like a good idea."

"We figured we could sneak you guys in because Major Miles is Ishvalan and no one really notices Falman. No offense."

The older man looked up solemnly. "My wife notices me, Havoc, and that's more than you can say for yourself," he responded evenly.

"Ooh, Havoc, what a blow!" Breda cackled. Major Miles hid a smile, but erased it when the gravity of the situation returned to weigh on his mind.

"Do you have any sort of strategy?"

"Well, we did have a few ideas," Breda grimaced.

"If we could get the people of the city to help us," Fuery said, "then we would have a much better chance of getting them out safely. See, the problem is, we don't exactly know what we're dealing with. Or where we're dealing with. Or anything, really, anything at all."

Falman looked reassuringly at the young soldier, and told him, "Give me a few days, and I should be able to find some answers."

"And what should I do?" Miles asked.

"Well, we thought that since you were Ishvalan, you might have a better chance of getting some citizens on our side. They don't exactly trust us, and I don't blame 'em," Havoc replied.

Miles nodded. It seemed a task he was capable of. He wasn't much of a conversationalist, but reason was on his side, and the simple directness of the Ishvalans might prove to be a small reminder of a home that no longer existed. The Briggs men were his family now, the North a cold home that suited him better than the desert cities, but that didn't mean homesickness wasn't an illness he was immune to. But wherever he wasn't was where he longed to be, if he admitted it to himself. And Miles decided he was going to be divided between identities for the rest of his life. And he decided that it was a sacrifice he was more than willing to make, if it was one the Ice Queen asked of him.

* * *

_Miles followed a few paces behind General Olivier Armstrong as she brutally reprimanded the icicle scrapers and the laundry boys and the men in charge of artillery maintenance. Nothing was ever good enough for her. A queen indeed, she seemed to demand far greater than the possible yield, but when it came down to it, she did so because she knew you could do it. And a queen indeed, iron fisted with compassion behind her steely eyes, only visible when her exhaustion got the better of her and she couldn't quite manage to be the Northern Wall until she'd had her first night's sleep in weeks. On these occasions, Miles would often rouse General Armstrong from her accidental naps and help her through the deserted quiet of a stronghold at night. A long time ago, she'd given him a key to her quarters for occasions such as these._

_"I'm giving you these keys because I have no desire to sleep out in the hallway again. My back is killing me."_

_"You know, if you actually went to bed on a regular basis, this wouldn't happen," Miles warned gently. He often wondered if she would let anyone else speak to her like this. Upon consideration, the answer was always no. Miles tried not to dwell too much on the hand that rested on her lower back when he guided her to her room at three in the morning, or the occasions when her glares thawed upon meeting his eyes. Nothing good could come of it._

_"You very well know," General Armstrong yawned, "I don't have time to lounge around and sleep to my heart's content. Running Briggs isn't exactly a vacation." She massaged her temples, attempting to assuage the headache Miles knew pounded in her skull. He stood and pulled open a drawer of the filing cabinet. He fished around until his hands closed around a small plastic bottle. If she would just take some goddamn aspirin of her own will sometimes, he knew she would have it easier. Uncapping the bottle, he shook two pills into his palm and handed them to her. The General swallowed them without a second thought._

_"Thanks. Don't know what I'd do without you," her gruff affection surprisingly endearing._

_"Looks like you might have to, boss. There's an…issue, with General Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye and their reconstruction assignments. It seems they've been, ah, kidnapped, and the Fuhrer requested my help."_

_"Damn stupid bastard, always getting himself into ridiculous situations and dragging his poor lieutenant down with him."_

_"General-"_

_"Olivier. It's the middle of the night and you've known me long enough, Miles."_

_His lips quirked into a smile. It had been years since he'd called her that. "Olivier. The Fuhrer wants me to head to Ishval as soon as possible with Officer Falman. Apparently, they need our help."_

_"Useless, as usual. I guess I don't have a choice. Nice of Grumman to ask, though," she said scathingly._

_As they discussed logistics and strategy, Miles noticed her eyelids fluttering, and the sheer force she spent on trying to keep them open. Stupid woman. If she didn't start taking better care of herself…Well, Miles guessed that was his job. Not even queens are invincible, though she fooled enough people to make it seem so. But watching her fall asleep with her head in her hands, all her frozen armour seemed to melt. He knew she hated it when anyone saw her vulnerable, but before he forced her back to her room, Miles just wanted to fix her sleeping face in his mind. He was happy to know that he was probably the only person allowed to memorise her features as they dreamed. She'd be furious if she knew._

_"Olivier," he said quietly, shaking her shoulder. She cracked her eyes, groaned, and proceeded to ignore him. "Come on," Miles said, hauling her to her feet and guiding her down the hall to her quarters. He slipped a hand around Olivier's waist to steady her, and she leaned against him, allowing him to guide her._

_Miles unlocked her door, but to his surprise, instead of entering and shutting the door behind her, Olivier clasped her arms around his neck and leaned her forehead against his chest._

_"You're tired, you need to go to bed," he said reluctantly, and considering her position, it was a struggle to say it at all._

_"I know," she murmured, refusing to move. Miles placed his hands on her lower back and rested his chin on the top of her head. These rare moments were as melancholy as they were sweet, because they only happened when the general was too exhausted to think about what she was doing. But despite the bittersweet result. Miles never passed up the opportunity to feel her heartbeat against his. He often found himself wondering if she remembered in the morning. All odds were that she didn't._

_He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she let out a breath, someone else when she wasn't a wall of ice and steel._

_"Bed. Now," he told her._

_"You're right…"_

_"Yes, I am."_

_He didn't tell her that he was leaving before sunrise, and he didn't know how long she'd have to do without him. Though Miles wasn't arrogant, by any means, he recognised his vitality to the general. In a world where every man must fend for himself, this woman had done the impossible, and united the north under her rule. It didn't come without a cost. Miles knew that she trusted no one but him, especially now that Buccaneer was dead._

_So he didn't tell her, and she'd have his head on a stake when he got back, but she was so strangely, uncharacteristically soft in his arms, and all he wanted her to do was sleep before she drove herself crazy._

_She hadn't budged, even though she'd yielded to Miles' request. He chuckled._

_"Come on," he said, half carrying her to her bed. He lay her down on the small cot, but to his surprise, she pulled him down next to her. Miles faced a decision – protest and regret it forever, or stay and possibly face a volley of punches in the morning. He decided he'd just leave before Olivier woke, to avoid the complications of an undefined relationship._

_He fell onto the mattress and she turned toward him, already three-quarters asleep._

_"Thanks," and her eyes were shut tight._

* * *

Miles walked through the crowded market square, and seemed to be at home in the dusty crowd. After milling about for several minutes, he slipped into a narrow alley that could nearly go unnoticed as a crack in the wall. To Major Miles, milling about meant listening, and no better place to listen that the loudest place he could find. He listened for hints of backwater bars, gang fights, illegal activity of violent and predatory nature. Needless to say, in a city still ravaged by war, he found was he was looking for.

A door nestled in the brick wall of the alley. Miles knew it was the right one because of the green paint on the door – the two men had talked about the establishment so loudly that Miles couldn't really call it eavesdropping, but he was indeed grateful to know that the hub of shady business was, in fact, hidden behind a green door in the alley behind the ancient fruit seller. He entered and approached the burly bartender behind the counter.

"I'm looking to hire some men willing to fight under my direction," he said quietly to the man. The bartender seemed unfazed, face expressionless in the dim candlelight. It seemed as if this kind of thing was perfectly normal. It probably was perfectly normal, actually.

"How much are ya payin'?"

"I have a better incentive than money."

The bartender chuckled. "There ain't no better incentive than money."

"I wouldn't be too sure. Can you help me?"

"Sure, I'll try. I know some fellas willin' to bargain. Not guaranteein' nothin' without cash up front, though."

Miles nodded. "Have them report the Ishvalan Military Command at sunset tonight."

The barkeep's eyes widened. "Your outta your mind," he said, shaking his head. "I ain't getting' my men involved in no official government business."

"Believe me, this is not official government business."

The large man looked curious, seeming to weigh his interest against his ideals. A smirk tugged at Miles' lips.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Make sure they aren't followed. We appreciate the help."

* * *

Team Mustang waited impatiently in the general's unused office. The audible tick of the clock served as a reminder of the distinct lack of illegal mercenaries.

"I thought you said they were coming," Fuery whined.

"They are."

As if to punctuate his certainty, four sharp raps on the door broke the tight silence. About twenty fearsome looking men and women stood in the hallway, faces a mix of trepidation and determination.

"I take it we're in the right place," the woman at the head of the group asked. She wore a pink bikini top and cargo pants, with a gun slung from her shoulder and a rather intimidating assortment of knives dangling from her belt. Black tattoos and white scars decorated her dark skin.

"Damn straight," Havoc answered, eyeing her appreciatively.

"Oi, eyes to yourself, blondie, I don't swing that way," she snapped, tossing him a glare so reminiscent of Lieutenant Hawkeye's reprimands that Havoc ducked his head and muttered a flushed apology.

"We weren't followed, as per your request, which is why we're late."

"We're just grateful to have you here."

"Not so fast, sideburns, don't go thanking us yet, we haven't agreed to anything."

"Perhaps before we continue, we could introduce ourselves. I'm Major Miles, of Briggs."

"Second Lieutenant Breda."

"Second Lieutenant Havoc.

"Sergeant Major Fuery."

"Officer Falman.

"I'm Rosalie. No title, no last name, no bullshit. And these are my fighters."

The group still stood warily outside the door. Miles gestured inside, but Rosalie shook her head. Lounging against the doorframe, she told him, "Not until we know you aren't some bullshit double-crosser out to get yourself a promotion on our heads."

His Ishvalan blood didn't seem to make a difference to this woman. She seemed indifferent to his skin or his hair or his eyes, only his uniform and where his allegiances seemed to lie.

"So what are you offering for our assistance?" Rosalie asked.

"Nothing." The woman snorted.

"You can't be serious."

"I am. Before you dismiss my request, let me tell you why I need your help."

Miles proceeded to outline the story of Mustang and Hawkeye's capture, Sanctimonia's motives, and the dangerous threat posed to all of Ishval at their hand.

"So, basically, what you're saying is, you want us to help you save the guy who destroyed our country. For free," Rosalie scoffed.

"Yeah, pretty much," Breda answered.

"No fucking way, boys."

"I understand you might not have any sympathy for Mustang, but Sanctimonia has an agenda that, if allowed to thrive, will eventually destroy everything Mustang is trying to rebuild. This is your chance to stop that from happening."

Rosalie stopped to consider for moment. "Mustang's just a side effect of this, I suppose. Hmmmmm," turning to her little army, she said, "let's put it to a vote. All in favour?" and every hand went up.

A man called, "We ain't letting some government nutjob put us through that again."

"Alright," she nodded at Miles. "We'll do it. But if you aren't paying, you better at least give us some fucking food."

"Done," Miles said, trying to hide his grin.


	15. revelation

**A/N: **I PROMISE I'M GOING TO UPDATE MORE FREQUENTLY. I say this every time but I mean it. My grades are not ideal right now and finals are coming up, so that might not exactly happen, but I'll try my best because I love hearing that you guys are enjoying the story! This is where things get real, guys. Are you ready? You're probably not ready.

**_For some reason is messing up my formatting, so I'm sorry about that and I'm trying my best to fix it._**

* * *

**Chapter 15: Revelation**

_revelation (n.): a surprising and previously unknown discovery._

* * *

"It worked."

Riza let out a sigh of relief. The pain in her back slowly dissipated, and the clarity of mind the shock had given her was fading with it. She squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to fight off the fog.

She heard a clap and a rush of heat warmed the back of her neck as the room flooded with orange life. She turned to Roy, who stood with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"How…?" she wondered aloud.

"I don't like it much, but at least going through the gate gave me _something _worthwhile."

"Clapping alchemy?"

He nodded. "It doesn't feel quite right, but considering my gloves are probably either shredded or locked in a safe, it's the best option we've got."

She tried to stand, but her knees buckled and Roy barely caught her in time to keep her from crashing into the floor.

"I'm fine," she mumbled, words fuzzy in her mouth. Roy looked intently into her eyes. She felt like she was falling into the black irises, drowning in their depths.

"Dammit, Riza! You are not fine and you know it!" he said, pressure seeming to snap, launching out loud words that struck against her ears like firecrackers. "You need a doctor."

She pulled away in an attempt to stand on her own, to prove herself and him wrong because she was Riza and she had to be strong. She failed, and promptly stumbled into the warm wall of his chest.

With his forehead touching hers, she tilted her chin up and kissed him. An absurd hallelujah amid her fear, she thanked god they'd been allowed toothbrushes. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders fell away, and the weakness in her limbs seemed inconsequential. It was a heavenly relief to obey the polar magnetism hovering between them.

"For luck," she said against his lips.

And also because there was a little worry in the back of her mind that her body wouldn't hold out much longer, or because she could feel her brainwaves lapping ever more gently on the sand. Because the fog was rolling in and her time was running out.

And also because she loved him. More than the sun and the moon and the stars. Well, really, he was all those things to her. He held her in orbit, balanced the tide, and connected the constellations of her history.

"We're going to need it," Roy replied, wrapping a strong arm around Riza's waist. Despite disgust at her own weakness, her muscles and bones welcomed the support. It was a comfort not to have to walk alone. And it was a comfort to be held so close.

He was the reason she hadn't caved in yet, and he was the reason she was determined to keep it that way. Because she was his protector, his lionheart, and who was going to keep this idiot out of trouble and know when he needed coffee even when he doesn't, if she wasn't there?

Roy released Riza for a moment to clap and blast the door down. Wooden remnants still glowing, they walked through the doorframe and into the torchlit glow of a cavernous hallway. Stalagmites hung threatening from the high ceiling. From what she could see in the shadows, this place seemed to be a natural tunnel, perhaps part of a network twisting beneath the desert. She hoped they could find their way out.

The patter of booted feet sounded in the distance.

"Guards."

"I need to find out where Cornelius might be keeping my gloves. And then how we can get out. Stay here," Roy told her. Fighting the urge to protest – she knew she'd be useless in a fight – she leaned up against the wall. As the men approached, she could distinguish three separate pairs of footsteps. They rounded the corner, three gruff men with pale skin, guns in ragged holsters, dressed in unfamiliar uniforms. She scoffed at the state of their rusted weapons, amazed that they show so little care for such dangerous tools. Men who didn't realise the importance of arms maintenance obviously lacked both training and common sense. They couldn't pose a threat if they tried.

Roy punched the first in the nose, and elbowed the second in the temple, knocking them both out cold. The third, he kneed in the groin, and as the soldier fell to his knees, Roy grabbed him by the collar. "Where's the command room?" he demanded. The man shook his heads, lips held resolutely shut.

Riza quietly stepped forward a slipped a pistol from the holster of one of the men lying unconscious. The familiar feel of her finger on the trigger lent her some of the power she felt so vulnerable without, now that her own body and her own brain couldn't be of much use to anyone at all. Approaching from behind, she rested the tip of the gun on the back of the soldier's head, meeting Roy's eyes as she did so. She could tell he was fighting a smile. So was she. It felt good to be back in the game, partners in crime, partners in survival.

The silent soldier trembled. "Answer the question," she said.

"Two lefts, one right, first door you see," he squeaked.

"And the way out?"

"Keep going past the office and follow the tunnel straight please don't kill me I have a wife and a family and - "

"Thanks," Roy said, and Riza smacked him on the head with the barrel of the gun, effectively rendering him unconscious.

"Come on, let's go," he said, concerned eyes canvassing the slump in her shoulders and the circles beneath her eyes.

But she couldn't let Roy know that she was slipping, because she didn't want to see him hurt for her anymore. She'd caused him too much pain already

They made their way down the corridor, slow going as Riza's feet dragged like lead weights welded to her ankles. She leaned against Roy, aware that he realised with each step she rested more of her weight on him. The tunnel became a spiderweb of rough corridors, branching off at intersections, creating a massive maze of rock and dust. They followed the man's directions and eventually reached a wooden door exactly like the one to their prison, but without the iron bolt locking anyone in.

Roy listened at the crack.

"I don't think there's anyone in there."

He slowly pushed open the door to a spartan office furnished with mismatched chairs and filing cabinets. Roy furiously rummaged through the desk drawers, searching for his gloves. Riza turned to the filing cabinets, ruffling through the papers inside, hoping to find something important. Tucked away in the corner, she saw a small iron safe.

"Roy," she breathed, unable to manage anything louder, "Have you found your gloves yet?"

"No."

"I think they might be in here." She examined the lock, spinning the dial experimentally, and came to the conclusion that it wasn't going to open eagerly. So she shot the lock off.

Roy yelped. "A little warning next time!"

"Sorry," she smirked. Inside, three pairs of Roy's gloves, the three pairs that Riza had in her possession when they were captured, lay neatly folded. Roy snatched them up eagerly and slid a pair almost reverently onto his hands. She recognised the satisfaction on his face, a triumphant glint in the eyes at the restoration of his control. Gloves were his allies, guns were hers. They were evil things, these weapons, created to kill and she would be damned if she didn't loathe it with every atom in her body, but they were also saviours. Love and hope had inspired Roy and Riza both to choose this road so long ago; these evil things, these weapons, they were the tools to bring about their great ambitions. It was all a bit ironic, the violence required to create peace.

"It's strange we haven't seen any other guards around here yet," Roy commented, awakening from his glove-induced reverie.

"Whatever is going on, we can use it to our advantage and see if we can find anything worthwhile in here."

Riza leaned heavily on the desk as they flipped through files and pages and papers needing signatures, many of them official government issues to Cornelius himself. It was apparent they had no idea that Cornelius's preferred extra-curricular activities included inspiring genocide and kidnapping other officers. A handwritten document stood out to her from the printed masses. It was a list of names signatures three pages long, titled 'Current Members'.

"Roy, come look at this," in her shock finally dropping her formal address and failing to even notice. "I think it's a list of everyone in Sanctimonia. And it includes the entire council of advisors."

"I can't believe – Do you think Fuhrer Grumman knows about this?"

"I don't think he'd let something this big go undealt with."

"We have to show this to him. Keep it safe."

"Yes, sir."

The vague sound of shouting fell on her's ears, and she turned to Roy, wondering if he heard it too.

"Looks like our luck's out," he said, and they slipped out of the office and down the hall.

As they followed the directions to find their way out, Riza could feel her body giving out beneath her. She had pulled herself together because she needed to, but not even that necessity could help her now. Beyond her strength of mind, her body itself could no longer fight the effects of the drug. She didn't know what it was they injected her with, only it made her forget who she was, foggy and weak, only that it lulled her to sleep for longer and longer each time until waking was only a temporary reprieve from her nightmares. And she knew that she was slipping feet first into a haze again.

Roy was nearly carrying her as they walked, her steps only a formality. He asked her questions to keep her alert, sensing something wrong. She answered the questions as best she could, knowing her words slurred. But she stayed awake. Because he needed her. Because they were damn well getting out of here alive and she was damn well going to help him.

Stupid body, stupid brain, they had nothing on her willpower.

The noise grew louder, gunshots and yells and thuds of thrown punches. Riza, confused, couldn't fathom who could be fighting if it wasn't them, the escaped prisoners. But no one even seemed to realise they'd blown up the door, broken into the command office, and shot the lock off a safe. Not that she was complaining.

The tunnel abruptly opened into a large cavern held up by wooden scaffolding. Torches lined the wall, the huge hall lit brightly. Rocky outcrops and natural swellings in the cave formation created a landscape of levels. And these levels were a battleground of ragged mercenaries and even more ragged Ishvalans, a writhing crowd in chaos, regiments and rules forgotten.

In the fray, Riza picked out several Amestrian blue uniforms, as Havoc called out, "Nice of you two to finally join us!"


	16. corollary

**A/N: **Hey guys! Sorry for the gap between updates, I had midterms last week and oh my god were they awful. But now I'm on spring break! Yay! Except I have to write an application essay, outline a research paper, annotate 60 pages, do three review guides, and start online driver's ed. Hopefully, in the middle of all that, I'll be able to give you guys three or four updates before the break is over. Pray for me.

* * *

**Chapter 16: Corollary**

_corollary (n.): conclusion, deduction._

* * *

Lieutenant Jean Havoc tossed and turned, after all these weeks still unable to sleep in these military cots. Too similar to the hospital bed he spent so much time confined to, unable to even wriggle his toes due the injury Lust the homunculus inflicted on his spine. He felt so useless back then. Just like he did now.

Colonel Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye were somewhere far beyond his reach, and the crippling inability to help them plagued the soldier constantly. They were so much more than his superior officers – they were part of the haphazard family Mustang had gathered together such a long time ago.

_The young man pulled on his boots and buttoned his jacket, completing the blue uniform. His messy blonde hair was begging for a trim, but there were more important things to worry about right now. One of them being his impending first day at the Amestrian Military Academy. So naturally, haircuts were not first and foremost on Jean Havoc's mind._

_Instead, he was thinking about whether his mother could manage setting up the watermelon stall herself when summer rolled around, or whether his father was familiar with the new changes in the foreign currency exchange rate. He worried about his parents, which was stupid, considering they'd owned their general supply store for twenty-five years and he'd only started pitching in the last five, but leaving home was never easy. He clung to excuses to stay, finding reasons to perhaps postpone his enrolment; reasons like a new shipment of animal feed that had to be stacked, or needing to sort out the Robertson screwdrivers from the Philip's heads. Things anyone could do, but things that he wanted to because they were good, and easy, and familiar. _

_The radio crackled in the background, and Havoc turned from the mirror, where he was lucklessly trying to flatten his hair, to twitch the antenna. Getting a signal out in the country was a feat in and of itself, but Havoc seemed to have a knack for it, and within a few seconds the rich voice of a radio announcer boomed out, "…to announce the of the conflict in Ishval! Thanks to our hero, Major Roy Mustang, we can finally say that we've stopped the rebellion! We'd like to honour some other names of distinction, soldiers with outstanding contributions to our victory and admirable loyalty to Amestris: General Doyle Cornelius, Major Alfred Rosenberg, Cadet Riza Hawkeye…" The radio crackled and fizzed out. Havoc thumped down on his bed, his surprise and happiness mixed with a tinge of doubt. He wondered if it was really a good idea to be joining the military. There would always be another war, another enemy, and he didn't always know who was in the right. He wondered if he would really be willing to kill for a cause he didn't believe in._

_But at the same time, he couldn't stand to sort Robertsons from Philip's heads when men and women were dying to protect him. He wanted to be one of those protectors too; he wanted to make a difference in this world, despite how warm and sunny the family store was on summer days. Also, hearing his name recognised on the radio for his contributions to victory wouldn't be so bad, either. _

Havoc smiled at the memory. He remembered the dust motes and the warm smell of hay, the smell of home. But it wasn't enough to soothe his mind, or his wriggling toes. Instead, it just served to remind him of how long General Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye had been a part of his life, ingrained in his memory long before he was a part of the team. Maybe some sort of magnetic force drew them all together: Fuery, Falman, Breda, Hawkeye, Mustang, and himself. And, of course, Black Hayate. He missed the old days in Central, when there was nothing more to worry about than paperwork. Looking back, he marvelled at how drastically such things could change.

He missed Rebecca, too, with her thick mane of hair and her sarcastic smile, matching so perfectly with his. She was part of his life in Central too, the life he didn't think would fall apart just months after the end of the world. If anything, he'd counted on coming home and hearing her bang through the door a few minutes after, grumbling about something new every day. And he'd counted on being able to make her forget about it by kissing her silly. And when he got back, he was going to tell her he loved her. And dammit, he wasn't going to let anything happen to her because he can't imagine what it would be like to have her gone like that. He couldn't do it again. And he couldn't let it happen to her.

He gave up on sleep at that point, tossing off the coarse blankets. Clad in pajamas and military boots, he took up a familiar route down the halls and climbed up a set of inconspicuous stairs to the roof. He'd taken to wandering. It helped to move his legs, prove that he was good for something, even if it was just walking. It helped to clear his mind, clogged with thoughts of the past, of Rebecca and their tangled sheets and their disparaging dates and the stupid way he loved her to pieces. And the stomp of his feet helped to drown out his doubts – about the general and the lieutenant, about himself.

The crisp air bit at his skin as he opened the hatch and clambered onto the roof. To his surprise, Major Miles sat on the low wall surrounding the edge of the flat roof, staring out across the moonlit city. Havoc walked across the top of the building and sat himself down next to Miles.

He felt as if maybe he should say something clever or sarcastic, but maybe, this time, it would be better to say nothing at all. Jokes couldn't always mask when things hurt, and maybe they didn't always have to.

"How is your team holding up, Lieutenant Havoc?"

"Oh, you know, fantastic. Really."

Miles gave him a hard stare, and Havoc felt a little remorse for his flippancy. Miles wasn't really one to appreciate it.

"You know how we're holding up, major. You've seen it. Sure, we _act _like we're fine, like our lives haven't been uprooted and we haven't been dumped in the middle of a fucking desert, like we're totally okay that the leaders we've devoted our lives to have suddenly been kidnapped and we don't know where they are or how to help them – but all you have to do is take a look at us when we think no one's watching, and you've got your answer."

Miles nodded in response, and returned to his inspection of the city spread out below him. "When your loyalty is to another soldier instead of to the state, you set yourself up for misery," he said solemnly.

Havoc flashed to General Olivier Armstrong.

"You've sworn allegiance to the Ice Queen, haven't you?"

Miles nodded again. Man of few words, this one.

"Why?"

"For the same reason you swore allegiance to Colonel Mustang – "

"General Mustang – got a promotion."

"Ah, well, I'll make sure to congratulate him on behalf of General Armstrong when we find him. She won't be happy, but maybe he'll laugh at the sentiment. To answer your previous question…for the same reason you did. Because I believe in her, and because she can't accomplish everything on her own," he chuckled, "no matter how much she thinks she can."

"See, General Mustang is convinced that he can't do _anything _on his own. Especially paperwork. Mostly the paperwork. And Lieutenant Hawkeye, she actually _can _do everything on her own, but chooses to let us help her so we have something to do."

Talking like this put Havoc at ease. Bantering with a comrade about their superior officers reminded him of easier times, and it wasn't a great feat of imagination to imagine these very officers obliviously asleep two floors below them. But there was an ache in his voice that he couldn't really disguise, and at this point didn't see the reason to.

"Lieutenant Havoc. With Rosalie's gang, with Falman's knowledge, with everyone's help, we're going to find them. And we're going to bring them back."

Havoc nodded, not trusting himself to speak due to his obnoxious urge to cry. Pathetic. Instead he pulled out a cigarette and lit up, the tip like a little sun grazing the edge of the horizon, and he imagined that it was the sun rising on a day when things were different.

* * *

"Poker?"

"No."

"Gin?"

"No."

"Go fish?"

"I am not going to play cards with you!"

"Aw, come on, Rosalie, it's fun. Look how much fun we're having"

The woman glanced over at Breda, Fuery, and Havoc sitting at the table. Breda and Fuery looked completely miserable. Havoc kicked them. They attempted weak smiles.

Rosalie snorted.

"No."

Havoc sighed. There was nothing much they could do besides wait. Falman had told them that morning he had an inkling, an itch, a memory hiding just beyond where he could reach. So, as always, he decided to go to the library. The ridiculous amount of suspicion they would have garnered had four soldiers in uniform walked into the huge but dilapidated Ishvalan National Library would not have served them well at all. Instead, Miles and a few of Rosalie's fighters – who happened to have carried out a few jobs for the head librarian himself so perhaps they could beg a few favours – decided to go with Falman. Everyone else was trapped inside headquarters. They didn't even have to pretend they weren't doing anything to find the general and the lieutenant. Because they weren't.

They were playing go fish.

The frustration of his utter uselessness was beginning to wear on him, and the others too, he could tell. The only person in the room in a good mood was Rosalie, and that was presumably because she'd waltzed in around seven in the morning demanding breakfast for all of her squadron, and got what she wanted.

All Havoc wanted was some damn bacon.

"So, Rosalie," Breda began, "what, exactly, do you guys do?"

"We take jobs from people who want this place to be less of a shithole. We're a substitute for the Ishvalan police, considering we don't have any."

"There isn't a police force in the city?" Fuery gasped, cards forgotten.

"Nope. We were all pretty pissed about it until we found out that the guy in charge had been kidnapped. I mean, you can't exactly blame him, but honestly, I don't get why the government is so averse to putting _Ishvalans _in charge of Ishval."

Fuery's brow crinkled. "I never even thought of that…"

"Yeah, most people don't. But we don't need Amestrians coming in here to save us from the mess they made. No offense to you guys," she said, gesturing to the three, "You just follow orders, but they act like we're too stupid and uncivilised to govern ourselves. And let me tell you, we could do a damn well good job at being in charge of our _own _country. We're strong enough to help ourselves, and we have the right to govern ourselves, too."

Havoc listened thoughtfully. He'd never really considered that the Ishvalan people might not want the Amestrian government's help. But it made sense. More sense than anything else was making. The mystery of the kidnapping was driving him mad. Rebecca hadn't written in two weeks and three days. He didn't get any bacon at breakfast. And no one was playing go fish with him anymore. If they had just put Ishvalans in charge of Ishval this massive and life-threatening headache wouldn't be an issue.

He understood that General Mustang had wanted the job, wanted to fix things, atone. And if anyone was going to have the job, it should be him. But maybe no one should have the job. Havoc thought the best way for everyone to make amends is just Ishval do whatever the hell it wants, undisturbed. Trying to clean a slate with bloody hands was not going to happen.

Havoc sighed.

"What's got you down, blondie?" Rosalie asked, breaking her reverie, where she presumably imagined a world without Amestrian soldiers causing chaos in her city.

"Politics."

"I thought it would be something more interesting than that."

"Politics can be interesting," Fuery protested. Havoc grinned. His thoughts had grown too serious over the past few days and it was time for a good distraction.

"Nah, politics are shit." Nodding to Rosalie, he asked, "Would you play if I raised the stakes?"

"What are we playing for?"

"Tomorrow's breakfast."

"I'm in."

Just as Havoc began to deal out hands, Falman burst into the room, eyes lit up. Miles and the fighters followed after, Miles wearing a small smile. "I've got it!" Falman said excitedly, and Havoc jumped to his feet, playing cards and breakfast bets forgotten in the light of a discovery.

"Got what?"

"I know where General Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye are."

"What? Where?"

"Let me explain," Falman answered, placing his load of books and scrolls on the table and motioning for everyone to gather around. He spread out what looked to be an old map of Ishval, full of age spots and faded where the wrinkles crisscrossed the page. "There was something in the back of my mind that I just couldn't get at, something I'd read a long time ago. At the library, I requested old maps and books on Ishvalan history to see if they could jog my memory. And they did. See here?" he asked, pointing to a section on the map, "this is the location of the old Ishvalan Council, an ancient organisation who used to lead this country. When Amestris annexed Ishval, the Council was disbanded, but their old gathering places remain."

Havoc had no idea what he was pointing to on the map. It looked like an ink blot to him. But if Falman said it was a secret underground gathering place, then a secret underground gathering place it was.

"This is the only place they could feasibly be. Close enough to keep watch over us, but not anywhere in the city. We've swept over the entire area, but the entrance to this place is disguised by the boulder formation a quarter of a mile outside the city walls. I discovered that it's a network of underground tunnels and rooms, naturally formed in the rock, and the axis is a giant cavern held up by an ornate wooden architecture."

"Who cares about the architecture?" Havoc nearly shouted, "Let's go!"

Rosalie gave him a disparaging glare, one that communicated her hopelessness for him. "I have a twenty four hour notification policy for my fighters. They have lives too, you know."

"Fine. But tomorrow, at – " he turned to Falman, "What time is sunset?"

"6:57."

"Tomorrow at 6:57, you all better be here and ready to kick some serious ass."

Havoc was determined to get General Mustang and Lieutenant Hawkeye back safe. And he was determined, after that, to talk some sense into them and get everyone out of this city where the people so obviously wanted to be in charge of themselves. And then he would go back to Central, restock on cigarettes, and tell Rebecca he loved her.

But first, they had yet another battle to fight.


	17. limit

**A/N: **Sorry for the late update! I sang in a Pink Floyd concert at my school last weekend, and rehearsals took up so much time it was ridiculous. I want to get another update posted this weekend to make up for it, and I'll try my best despite my impending doom - I mean, my AP World History exam. Also, if any of you are into Fairy Tail, I'm planning a Gajeel/Levy AU that should get going in the next few weeks, so you can check that out if you want! Okay, I'm done with talking about my personal life, time for shit to get legit (cackles quietly to self).

* * *

**Chapter 17: Limit**

_limit (n.): the point beyond which something cannot continue._

* * *

"Nice of you two to finally join us!"

All heads whipped around to see who Havoc had yelled at. Roy guessed he looked a mess, what with having sat in a prison for three weeks with only a few opportunities to shower and clean himself up. And Riza, leaning against him, eyes hazy, didn't look much better. Her hair was ratted tangles and dark circles hung beneath her eyes. But they were out of the dark. And they were safe.

Well.

Sort of.

Because after that quick frozen moment, everyone remembered that they were in the middle of a battle and resumed their attempts to kill each other. Cornelius's mercenaries against his men and…were those Ishvalans? Fighting on Team Mustang's side? Despite the absurdity of it, Roy decided now was not the time to question any sort of assistance they might have. And it was good to see that maybe, in small ways, that things could change.

But, having a bigger problem to deal with, he didn't really have time to mull over the complexities of Ishvalan attitudes towards the Amestrian government. A man with an age-spotted sword charged towards them. Still standing in the mouth of the tunnel, Roy snapped his fingers, relishing and abhorring the catch of cloth. The man was incinerated in an instant, bones cracking and flesh singeing. A spark caught on one of the carved wooden pillars reaching up into the cavernous ceiling. Finding purchase, the spark became a flame and the flame became a fire, and the fire ate its way up the column, devouring the flowers so carefully engraved in the wood.

"Shit," Roy muttered as he watched the fire burn to the heights, ashes falling like snow on the melee. Rocks tumbled down from where the pillar anchored in the roof of the cave, and the danger of collapse, though not immediate, rendered Roy incapable of flame alchemy. One more incident like that and the whole place would come tumbling down.

"Shit!" he growled louder, tightening his grip around Riza and moving forward. He reached in his pocket for the gun he'd taken from one of the soldiers earlier, his white-knuckled grip speaking of desperation. He was no good with a gun. And his back was wide open.

He wasn't too awful shooting close range, so as long as he got near enough to literally put the gun to the enemy's head, he should be fine. Right? Like that was going to happen. He knew he could fight like the devil in hand-to-hand, but he had Riza to look after.

A panting young Ishvalan scampered up to him in the fray. "I'm the medic, let me see her."

"What are your credentials?" Roy countered, not trusting his most precious soldier to a stranger.

"I don't have any – "

"Not a chance."

"I don't have any, and I'm no professional, but I'm the best chance she's got because right now she doesn't look too good."

Roy looked over at her to find that she'd gone unconscious, head lolling to the side and body limp in his arms.

"You gonna argue with that, General Mustang?"

"Fine. But if anything happens to her, so help me god – "

"I'll do my best."

The boy, who couldn't be older than eighteen, struggled to get Riza to the edge of the battle, small as he was. But Roy couldn't just stand there watching. Drawn into the battle, he began to fight. He saw that the only way they were getting out of here at all was if they defeated the mercenaries. All of them. In no state for pursuit, in even less state for defence, the necessity stood that this battle must be won. And if it wasn't – that train of thought was thankfully cut short by a rapid punch to his face. Roy responded by driving his fist into the attackers gut, knocking his legs out from under him, and kicking him hard enough to snap a few ribs.

He'd lost any capacity for mercy the first time Riza had a nightmare.

He came to fight side by side with Fuery, the young man using his size as an advantage to get up close and personal against their enemies. Roy gave him a nod of approval, shouting over the noise, "Nicely done!" as the younger officer took down a hulking man who, when sized up lying unconscious on the ground, looked to be about 300 pounds.

"Not bad yourself!" Fuery responded as Roy spun around and fired his gun directly into another man's stomach. Watching his own back wasn't easy – he wondered how Riza managed to do it so gracefully.

He also wondered how she managed to be stronger than he was, drugged and plagued with nightmares. She kept their direction even though all she could see was fog, she was a compass who managed to point north without a pole to guide her, and damn it if she wasn't a queen through and through. She stayed strong for him, and for all the people he had to protect in turn. So he kept fighting, because damn it if he didn't want to make her proud.

A he found himself tossed and turned in the fray until he found himself fighting alongside a woman in a bright pink tube top, wielding double knives as long as her forearms with magnificent ease. She rivalled Riza in battle composure, her face calm and smooth while she scored deep gashes into the cheeks of her opponent. Roy cringed inwardly at the blood that spattered across their chests and faces. He was unaccustomed to fighting like this, used to the detached extermination of a spark or a bullet. The rawness of it brought reality crashing down as he pummelled and punched, the movements automatic as his brain accepted a truth he didn't even consider before.

He'd always known that the country belonged to the people. Of course it did, of course! But did he ever really think about what that meant? Paying for war crimes and establishing a democracy was one thing, but being a part of this militant government gave a skewed perspective on the harsh actualities of a citizen. Citizens weren't given the comfort of detachment, but faced their blunt and colourful and bloody lives head on. And, as a country belongs to the citizenss, the citizens should be the ones fixing it. Sending trained men in uniform to repair what _they_ broke in the first place seemed rather counterintuitive.

And then someone socked Roy in the jaw, and he decided that there was a time and place for grand revelations. This was not it.

"You alright, Brigadier General?" The woman with the knives called over her shoulder, nonchalantly stabbing a man through the sternum.

"Yes. Fine. And you are?"

"Rosalie. No surname. Head of the gang currently crushing these bastards to a pulp."

"Thanks for the help. Much appreciated."

Their shouted conversation came to a close as their endless opponents drew them away. Roy didn't know how long it would take to get all these eager enemies either dead or unconscious. Everyone had taken them to be mercenaries, but mercenaries wouldn't fight to the death. He came to the conclusion that they must be recruits, prejudiced men willing to kill for their fabled utopia of a pure-blooded Amestris. Members of Sanctimonia, some of them military men, judging by their hand to hand combat skills, and some very clearly not, judging by _their _hand to hand combat skills. It made Roy sick, that this many people couldn't see beyond the differences of god and skin. And he knew for each of the men here, there were plenty more behind closed doors.

A hush began to trickle through the struggle, and Roy turned, confused by the muffled quiet descending on the raucous crowd. And then his heart dropped into his stomach, and his breath seemed stuck in his throat.

_No._

Because blocking the exit stood General Cornelius, holding a gun to Riza's head.

He stood above the crowd, on the flat top of a boulder at the edge of the cave. Cornelius gripped Riza tightly in the cage of his gnarled hands.

Despite the haziness clouding her eyes, Roy could see the hawk behind them. Keen sight blunted, but not blinded, she locked gazes with him. But this time, he sensed frantic panic welling up behind her calm façade.

"Hey, what the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Havoc shouted out.

"I don't appreciate your vulgarity. I am merely presenting an ultimatum," Cornelius answered. "Quite simple, really. I was hoping I wouldn't have to instigate one. I don't enjoy this, you know. I didn't want to kidnap military officers, I didn't want to make threats. But unfortunately, such measures became necessary to achieve my goal."

Roy didn't doubt the sincerity of this statement – the man didn't seem truly evil, just hell bent on his insane mission. But that made him seethe even more at the audacity. Cornelius may not have wanted this, but he didn't have any issues with atrocities. Roy could handle evil, but a set of morals as twisted as this man's was foreign territory, made even more despicable by the fact that he was human, unlike the homunculi, or Father.

The worst thing in the world is a human who does wrong and believes it is right. But even worse is recognising that right and wrong are completely subjective.

Roy supposed that all you can do is fight for your own truth, and hope that it's the one that hurts as few people as possible.

"I am not a tool for your ultimatum," Riza rasped out, "I am a human being, and will be treated as such!"

"You've sided with the Ishvalans. You, like them, are no longer a human being in my eyes."

"Oi!" Rosalie shouted, pushing her way to the front – not close enough to pose a threat and put Riza in danger, but close enough for Cornelius to see the rage on her face. "Me, my men and women, and all the people we protect, we are humans! More human than you, in that clean uniform with a paycheck every month. We have to live off our own sweat, our own blood, and the fucking tears our children cry because their parents were killed at your hands!"

"Semantics. You pagans with your brown skin and heathen traditions, you're primitive. You don't belong in a country as strong and as advanced as Amestris," Cornelius scoffed.

"The strength of the citizens of this country are what make it strong," Roy growled. "Every. Single. One. And to have suffered so much, and still be so resilient as to live on, I believe the Ishvalan people are the strongest of us all."

"Hah! There are only a few thousand left! Strength in numbers, Brigadier General Mustang."

"No. Strength of will," Roy answered, meeting Riza's eyes. She struggled to stand straight, fighting Cornelius's hold, but sagged after a moment. Roy saw the light in her eyes dimming. He knew they didn't have much time.

"What's your ultimatum, then, General?" he asked. The anger in his voice boiled over the careful constraints of calm, and rage forced his hands into fists.

"You destroy Ishval for me with your alchemy, and you both go free. I'll have you under my watchful eye for the rest of your lives to make sure you never let a word slip, but you will go free. You refuse…I shoot her in the leg. You refuse again, I shoot her in the other leg. You keep refusing, I keep shooting. Do you understand?"

Riza paled, but refused to let any fear show on her face. Even lost in a chemical wasteland, she was a queen. And it was like she was laying in the middle of a chalk circle, tides of blood leaking from her neck. A flashback to the Promised Day played each time Roy blinked. Even then, trembling, she wouldn't sacrifice reason for anything. Only this time, there was no one to save them from their choice.

Cornelius had a grim look on his face, staring down Roy like this could be settled with eyes alone. He should have been looking at Riza.

She twisted ever so slightly in his grip, before snapping around and kneeing him in the groin. His grip on the gun weakened, and in his split second of recoil, she wrenched it from his hand and slammed it to his forehead. His eyes widened in fear, his jaw dropped in shock, and breaking the graceful silence, Riza shot a bullet straight through his skull. Blood spattered like fireworks, mixed with flesh and bone.

Riza had saved herself. Riza had saved Ishval. Riza had won, Roy thought, before she crumpled to the ground.

He took no notice of the reigning chaos in the wake of the gunshot, focused only on running towards a limp body curled around a pistol. The medic beat him to Riza, but Roy had no inclination to let the incompetent bastard touch her.

"You let Cornelius take her!" he shouted at the young man. The medic shrank back in fear, and Roy knew what Riza would say to the look in his eyes right now. He could not let pure hatred control him now. It wasn't the medic he hated – it was Cornelius, Sanctimonia, all the prejudice that had torn his country, his life, and his loved ones apart. But that was not the fault of this lad, just a person volunteering to help those who barely deserved it.

Roy shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's alright," the medic said, as Roy shifted aside to let him examine her.

"How is she?"

"She's severely dehydrated and weakened, feverish, poisoned by whatever they were pumping her with. She needs immediate medical attention that I just don't have the equipment or skill for. We need to get her to a hospital."

"Is there anything you can do now?"

"I'll try my best."

The medic lifted her head and dripped water into her mouth from a flask at his side. He looked at Roy, a sort of hollow understanding in his glance as Roy wrapped his hand around her clammy fingers. With his thumb on her wrist and his eyes on her ribcage, he monitored her vital signs as best he knew how. The battle was falling to a close around him, Cornelius's men kneeling in surrender.

"Oi! Brigadier General!" Rosalie barked, "What do you want us to do with the prisoners?"

"Lock them in one of the caverns. I'll inform Central of their location. Reinforcements should be here in a few days to pick them up." There was no malice in his words, only cold resignation. The extent to which he could fight hatred had a limit, and this was it. The prisoners were rounded up, the exit forced open, the formalities carried out by his trusted men and their allied friends.

Roy gently cradled Riza in his arms, climbing up the incline and following his soldiers out the door. The first hint of light at the flat horizon met his eyes, breaths of wind gusted softly across the desert. He should have felt relief at the open sky, at freedom, but only one thought plagued his mind – there was no functioning hospital in the city of Ishval.


	18. adagio

**A/N: **I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated. Life got complicated and then it was finals but now it's summer! And I have time to write stuff! I estimate 7-10 more chapters left, and I plan to finish the story within the next few months. You guys get this one chapter of fluff before I bring in the heavy stuff again, so enjoy it while you can and be forewarned - it is most definitely not sunshine and daisies from here on out. No sunshine. No daisies. Just blood and plots and politics.

* * *

**Chapter 18: Adagio**

_adagio (n.): _music -_ in a leisurely manner, slowly_

* * *

"General Roy Mustang."

"Patient you're requesting to visit?"

"Riza Hawkeye."

"I'm sorry, this notice here says that no visitors are allowed, as she is not to be disturbed."

"Dammit! You've been telling me that for a week!"

Roy pounded his fist on the desk. He didn't care that the occupants of the waiting room glanced up from their mundane magazines to stare. He didn't care that the stubble on his face was at odds with the crisp new uniform he had been given for his promotion ceremony. If becoming a general wasn't going to get him past this receptionist, then it didn't matter. Who cares if he unearthed Sanctimonia and bridged the gap with the Ishvalan citizens? If this was the cost, it wasn't worth it.

"I'm sorry, but rules are – "

"I don't give a damn about your rules," he seethed, turning on his heel and storming through the double doors that lead into the main hospital, holding the flowers he brought in a death grip. He headed towards to third floor, to the room where he'd been told Riza lay unconscious. He really would have to award Fuery with a medal, perhaps engraved with the words 'For exceptional work in the art of illegal espionage' or something like that. The few doctors that dared to question him, despite his glare, stopped at the sight of the gleaming badges of merit on his chest. Pausing for a moment in front of the door to her room, Roy took a breath, steadying the heart that measured fear and love with racing thuds in equal measure. He turned the handle and stepped inside.

Riza wasn't an angel. Riza was strong and scarred and a sinner, but laying there with her hair spread out like halo across the white sheets, that was the first image that sprung to Roy's mind. Maybe because ultimately, despite her strength and scars and sins, she was his guardian and his saviour. She did what an angel would but without the wings or the glory. Roy sat down in the chair by her bed, lay the rather squished flowers on the bedside table, and took her limp hand in his. He brushed his fingers across her palm, tangled them with hers. Hearing her heavy breaths comforted him, the leaden sighs of carbon dioxide an assurance that she was still alive.

"Riza…I don't know if you can hear me. But I love you."

Silence. The drip of from the IV. Heavy breaths and leaden sighs.

"I was promoted to general today. The Fuhrer pinned the medal on me himself. He told me you'll be getting a promotion too…as soon as…as soon as you get better and you're out of here."

More silence. Then, the crackly static of a radio from the next room, the sound drifting in through the open window. Roy didn't know the song it played.

"I'm sorry, Riza. Sometimes, when I'm lying in bed at night, I think I should have burned down Ishval. I should have found a way to stop this from happening. What those drugs did to you - they told me you're detoxing, but they don't know what the effects will be once you wake up. I'm sorry for all of this. I'm sorry for all the times my stupidity has hurt you. And I'm sorry for crushing your flowers."

Damn rain. It goes about ruining the most beautiful days.

More crackly static from the radio, and then a song that Roy had heard before, a song that used to play on warm summer nights at the Hawkeye manor.

_A timid knock sounded on Roy's door. He hoped for that knock every night, and the nights that he did hear it were the best he could remember. Not that he'd ever tell her that, but Riza's dainty knuckles rapping against the wood made him feel like a real teenager for just a moment, nervously exuberant._

"_Yes?" he inquired as he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms._

_Riza wrung her hands, unusually flustered. "Hello. I…I, uh, –" _

"_I haven't got all night, you know."_

_He did, in fact, have all night._

"_Do you know how to dance?" she blurted out, looking down at her stockinged feet._

"_I grew up with a literal harem of older sisters who insisted on using me as practice before their dates. Yes, I do know how to dance."_

"_Will you teach me?"_

_Roy raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, I will, but why do you want to learn how to dance?"_

"_Well," Riza fidgeted, biting her lip, clearly embarrassed by the entire situation, "there's a dance at my school –"_

"_I get it," Roy grinned, grabbing her hand and pulling her into through the door. She let out a surprised squeak, but let him drag her to the center of the room. Riza's social life remained rather a mystery to Roy, considering she didn't share much and he wasn't an expert in the extracurricular activities of seventeen year old girls in the first place. But he did know that passing up an opportunity to dance with her was not a mistake he was going to make. He leaned over and placed a record in the gramophone. Static filled the room as the record began to spin._

"_First, you put your hand on my shoulder – no, your left hand, and then your right hand holds mine. Yeah, like that."_

_Trumpets swelled, playing a song like summer molasses, slow and easy in the dim light. Roy chuckled at the twelve inches of distance between them. Riza shifted uncomfortably._

"_Riza, you can't dance like this. Here," and he tugged her closer, close enough to smell the perfume she'd started wearing on her sixteenth birthday. She tensed._

"_Is this really necessary?" she asked him._

"_You're the one who wanted me to teach you."_

"_Yes, but – " _

"_Then no arguing." _

_Riza huffed. _

"_Fine, I mean, if you don't want to learn – "_

"_No, I do!"_

"_Then let's begin. Follow my lead."_

_Roy guided Riza through the motions of a waltz. The hand that rested on her waist steadied her stumbles, and the other led her movements across the scuffed floor. Soon, she'd picked up the basic motions, brow furrowed with concentration, each step assured and precise._

"_It doesn't have to be perfect, you know. Try and relax," Roy told her. She visibly attempted to get rid of the tension in her limbs by force of will. It didn't end up working._

"_Just close your eyes for minute and try it like that. Listen to the music. Don't use so much effort. Just let it come naturally."_

_Her eyes fluttered closed, and they kept dancing. Roy noticed, along with the considerable improvement in rhythm and grace, that she gravitated closer and closer toward him with each step until she bumped softly into his chest._

"_Sorry! I didn't mean to!" she said, eyes snapping open._

"_I told you to keep your eyes closed."_

_She took a step back and shut her eyes. "Sorry."_

"_Don't be," he answered, and pulled her back into his chest. His shirt muffled her gasp. After a moment, she relaxed her shoulders and wound her arms around his neck, eyes still closed. The last notes of the brass band faded back into static. They kept dancing anyway. These things tended to happen to them, these unaddressed moments of intimacy, impossible to quantify with words. Music was better. It didn't require any explanations for the stubborn love neither Roy nor Riza would admit to falling into. It would hurt too much when he left, and that's why they kept these things unaddressed. _

_However, certain issues did need clearing up._

"_This dance…are you going with anyone?" Roy tried to ask nonchalantly. He failed, but given the circumstances it probably didn't matter much. _

"_I was rather hoping to go with you," she mumbled, cheeks turning pink. _

"_Oh. Well, that can be arranged." A smile spread across Roy's face as they spun slowly in comfortable silence._

"Do you remember this song?" Roy asked quietly, staring at their tangled hands.

"Of course," came the whispered reply, so quiet Roy would have sworn he imagined it. But slowly, as if weights hung from her lashes, Riza opened her eyes.

"Thank god," Roy said, and pressed her hand to his lips. She struggled to sit up, finally managing it with Roy's arm supporting her shoulders and his hand on the small of her back. He sat on the edge of the bed as she leaned into him, resting against his chest, turning her head to bury her face in his neck. Roy welcomed her warmth, the solid, substantial weight of her in his arms. Riza was real, Riza was awake, and he was determined to keep her very far away from any more near death experiences.

"How long have I been here?" she asked, words slurred by sleep.

"Ten days. I haven't been allowed in to see you," Roy's voice caught in his throat. He bowed his head, a heavy crown of guilt and worry still resting on his brow. Riza shifted to face him and placed a hand under his chin, tilting his face up until his eyes met hers – red-rimmed and half-lidded but lucid, finally. Those sparkling brown eyes saw him and recognised him: a traitor, a soldier, a lover. That Riza could love him, after what he'd done to all those innocent people, after what he'd done to _her_, was a mystery he couldn't find the mental acuity question because of the soft lips brushing his in a quiet kiss.

They'd never been lucky enough to have a quiet kiss before. All the times their lips had clashed were dangerous and secret, on the clock and under pressure. Outside, the sun shone on trees with amber leaves, and crisp gusts of autumn air played around the windowframe. Riza veritably glowed in the sun. And their old song played, a little bittersweet now, what with all the innocence they'd lost since those days.

"Do you want to dance?"

"What?"

"Riza, dance with me."

She laughed and said yes.

Roy stood and bowed, offering her his hand. She took it and tried to stand up, almost falling on trembling knees, but Roy wrapped a strong arm around her waist. He felt her weakness in the grip of her hand and the unsteady steps of her feet, so unlike his queen. It made his heart ache. She supported him in everything, an unconditional crutch wielding a gun, and it was his turn, just for a little while, to help her in return. He had to atone for his selfishness somehow, even if all he could offer was a dance.

Roy carried her weight through the waltz, making sure she didn't fall and holding on to her with an iron grip disguised by gentle fingertips tangled in the soft fabric of her hospital gown. He damn well wasn't letting go anytime soon.

"I'm glad you were here when I woke up. I've been having nightmares…" she shuddered.

"Shh," he hummed quietly, "It's alright, Riza. The drugs should be out of your system now, you're alright," he held her close, kissing the top of her head.

"Thank you. For keeping me sane, through all that."

"It was all you, in the end. You saved us all, as usual."

"Just doing my job, sir." Roy laughed, and Riza began to laugh too, because it stopped being a job the day she said she'd follow him to hell and they both knew how ridiculous that statement sounded.

"And, Roy? I love you. I always have and I always will, no matter how many life-threatening situations you get us into," she murmured.

"Thanks for always getting me out again. I love you too."

The last notes of the brass band faded back into static, turning into the voice of a sports announcer broadcasting a baseball game to the coma patients in the next ward. Roy helped Riza to the bed. Catching sight of the ragged flowers, she just shook her head and smiled.

"I...they looked nice at one point, I swear."

"You should know, your complete lack of decorum is really charming sometimes, Brigadier General Mustang. Thank you for the dance."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "Your powers of observations are a little rusty, Riza. I've been promoted."

"To what?"

"General," he grinned.

"You skipped three ranks!"

"And I'm not the only one due for a promotion. You're grandfather gave me his word that you'd become a colonel as soon as you're released."

Riza's eyes widened.

"I don't believe it. Wait, you saw grandfather? We're in Central?"

"Yeah, since there isn't actually a hospital in Ishval…"

Riza rubbed her temples and sighed. "How much have I missed?"

"Not much." She glared at him. "Okay, a lot. You've missed a lot."

"Give me the abridged version."

"All of the Sanctimonia soldiers are dead or in prison, Rosalie is now in charge of Ishval Command and the division is staffed by the members of her gang, the list of Sanctimonia members on the council has been passed to the Fuhrer and they're figuring out how to kick them out and avoid another violent uprising from their followers, I've been reassigned to Central and made supervisor of all outlying command centres, and the team is in the waiting room begging the receptionist to let them in."

"Why won't she let them in if she let you in?"

"She didn't…exactly…let me in."

Riza rolled her eyes, "Did you really come in here without permission?"

"No! Well…alright, yes, but-"

"I'm glad."


End file.
